


Space Adaptation Syndrome

by Plinkoid_Fics (daveaj)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 106,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3282455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daveaj/pseuds/Plinkoid_Fics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this world, John Egbert does not get Dave Strider the perfect present for his thirteenth birthday.</p><p>However, by some twist of fate, John and Dave meet face to face. The circumstances are far from perfect, and the meeting may take many years to sink in. But the effect remains the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunlit Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a repost with permission. It was originally by former Tumblr/AO3 user Plinkoid. For more information on the author, go [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Daveaj/profile). The rating and tags may not be entirely accurate to what they were before, but I tried to account for any triggers I could find. If anyone leaves comments I will make sure the author sees them. Any notes after this point are the author's original notes.

Your home is states away.  The last semblance of a meal has been the meager bite of an atrocity you’d never dare to call airplane food.  Your indecisiveness towards the local weather’s eventuality has left your toes uncomfortably sweaty beneath the combination of already too small sandals and too thick socks.  Your attempts to switch your suitcase from arm to arm in the fears of scoliosis and other spine anomalies have left you frustrated; every time you do try to drag the load with your left arm you lose your footing in an ungraceful lack of coordination.  And you have had enough with all these people.  

People, people, people, and not a single one of them throughout this drawn out day has been anywhere near a comfort, a ray of sunshine…  You already have it up to here with sunshine, as soon as your feet had hit a surface other than the plane’s, from that very moment, you had had your fill of dry, warm summers.  The heat had slipped down your throat as a poignantly suffocating dissonance you simply had to expulse from your body.  No luck there.  Your fingers had curled and uncurled as more sweat had pooled in between your toes, but also every other area that makes you queasy with sore frustration.  From the nape of your neck to your wrists and everywhere else you still want to furiously scratch until the discomfort passes.  

People had seemed fine enough as long as you had been accompanied by your father, as if they had simply been waiting to single you out to veritably show their despicable side…  Then again, you have caught on to the fleeting thought that your father is simply much more cordial and appreciative than you are yourself; you don’t particularly like analyzing this one thought, so you quickly let go whenever it crosses your reasoning’s progression.  However, up to that one-sided bone crushing parting hug, everyone really had seemed nice enough.  You’re not all that sure if this is a question of perception or the former, a hostility that the world would hold against you, but it only took a few a few steps away from your one family member for the employees working at the security check to completely shove your mood into the plains of ‘truly and wholly sour’.  

It’s not even as if you’d actively participated in nourishing this development.  Yes, no matter how many times and how strongly your father had warned you not to make any jokes at the security screening; your throat had still itched to let out a comment or two.  You couldn’t even conjure up any original, witty options, but letting out something defying as ‘So, you really do check thirteen year olds for bombs and drugs?’ had been terribly tempting.  You hadn’t, you’d smiled, all teeth, and had instead wished the last of the employees on your path a good day, secretly sardonically, but that was secretly and you are absolutely positive it shouldn’t weigh into anything.  Even had the person returned the pleasantry with an equal ring of fakeness, well that could have built a more solid base for the start of your day.  No, there was a distinctive lack of reply, accompanied by a same distinct lack of smile, and instead the returning product had been a dulled and unimpressed gaze.  That’s all it had taken, one first person for you to throw your backpack aggressively over one shoulder and to outright fume all the way to your flight’s gate.  It takes you about five steps to slink your right arm into the free strap of the backpack, and somehow your innate habits and phobia to keep a straight posture only serve to feed your anger.

From there on out, every person you’d crossed had been hell.  Not that you hadn’t morphed your complete appearance into one of bad mood and frustration, but couldn’t that work in your favor in any way?  Shouldn’t anyone try to cheer you right back up?   Why did every single person to cross you have to actually cross you?  The flight attendant who’d given you a hard time when you hadn’t had your identification out and ready; it doesn’t matter how old you get, any lectures directed your way still make you see red.  The flight attendants who were chatting and not doing their job to direct passengers to their seats were just as irritating.  You know, you shouldn’t let other people’s work ethics affect you this much, you’ve been told, but it manages to anger you to no end.  If you aren’t happy doing your job, someone else will be happy to take it; it’s your approach, but it always spills out of you in throes of aggressiveness.  But today it’s not only those who aren’t doing their work efficiently who are getting on your very last nerves, it is literally everyone around you.  You get your promised window seat, and really that’s great.  And a thousand ideas swirl and lift in your mind only from gazing out at the skies and clouds.  And the woman besides you is ridiculously wearing too many layers for the plane’s destination, it’s not even as if Washington is anything but warm in the summer time either, yet there she is with her hoodie and her raincoat and…  With every breath she takes her elbow brushes against you, she’s taking too much space with how she’s all wrapped up, and every brush of her elbow pokes at the growing hunger in the pits of your stomach: no, all snacks proposed aboard this aircraft aren’t anything but sickening.  So you shift away brusquely, and you sigh loudly, and the woman laughs away with the movie that is playing on her screen, completely oblivious.  

And you tell yourself this is some form of Chinese torture; you’ve heard they used to drive people insane with only a continuous rhythm of droplets of water.  This must be some sort of variation on a theme.  Only, not really, because everyone continues grating at your quickly torn and final nerves and this can only be a more aggressive method of torture.  So you make sure to slip on a darker mask of anger, if only to give yourself a fighting chance.   Nothing gets easier.  You’d originally felt nervous at the idea of navigating yourself in an airport you have never been to before; what if you can’t find the luggage claim, what if you end up on the wrong side of the airport, what if you’re in the wrong place and that place is somehow restricted and you get in loads of trouble for your lack of direction?  It’s already stopped mattering by the time your plane starts its descent.  The need to pass under the radar and to be in the right place doing the right thing at the right moment has completely vanished from all sections of your thoughts.  The heat cuts at your throat as soon as you disembark, in a way that has you itching to change your clothes.  You can’t switch your clothes and that concept makes you uncomfortable enough that this anxious frustration settles down in your stomach for the rest of the day.  Getting lost in the airport is not even a possibility; two, three steps until a counselor has got you pinned to his group.  

You can’t tell his age, but he’s got the sort of attitude of someone who is confident enough in his abilities and confident enough in the prospect of; if you try your best everything will turn out great.  How you get this from his greeting and smile alone, you don’t care to debate.  The only fact you care to state and to acknowledge is that, somehow, this attitude is infuriating.  And so you don’t offer your own greeting or smile back.  You step into the group darkly, maintaining eye contact but definitely not putting up any air of pleasantness.  He says something to you along the lines of, “I heard you liked playing pranks— that dark look isn’t just a distraction while you put something in place to trick us, is it?”  Still upbeat, still confident and unwavering, and the extent of how one-dimensional this adult is turning out to be is adding a fragile layer of distress to your impressive array of negative feelings.  That’s enough to cut your will to stare him down.  You wonder if they have a file about you at the ready, an image they’ve built of you before you even got here, you wonder if everyone else is here to have a good time and you’re the extra who isn’t so secretly the barricaded problem child.  A counselor was supposed to pick you up at the airport, you’d known that much, you hadn’t known they’d corner you at your gate, you hadn’t reasoned that they’d be picking up others as well.  A wandering look at the few others following his lead cements how out of place you will be.  They are younger than you, young enough to be calling the whole ordeal space camp; you’d been corrected a lot when you’d tried using the term for yourself in the past: you can’t call it that anymore, you’re in the second age group, it’s not camp anymore.  But you still refer to it as space camp.  The other kids seem upbeat as well albeit tired, and so you pull back onto yourself a little more.  Even though your anger still keeps gaining ground in your insides, you don’t make a show of any outbursts, you treat the realization and the affirmation that you have to wait for another plane to land, for another person to add themselves to the plane-camp travel, without any complaints.  It’s making you angrier, but you take it as it is.  

You get angrier when you realize you’re the only one who needs to pass by the luggage claim, when you remember that other parents probably let their kids pack smartly for a week or so away from home.  And so you shift awkwardly and with that ever infuriated energy as you watch the luggage drop and monitor the area for your own belongings.  It doesn’t really take that long seeing as you had been waiting for another plane anyhow and the carousel had had time to progress without you.  Nonetheless, a surprising sigh leaves your lips as you make your way towards your suitcase, the release of air pinches at your diaphragm and it’s only then that you remember holding your breath at all.  The exhale brings a moment of clarity to your slow building rage and you’re even able to let your lips quirk upwards when one of the girls in the group tells you she likes your suitcase.  You liked the fluorescent green of it as well and somehow remembering that you had belongings you actually liked alongside you hushes your irritation slightly.  

This puts you in your current situation, dragging your suitcase behind the group, sweating profusely in the heat of the airport, and withering with the pressing hunger in your gut.  You imagine it might get better, but the positive thought reminds you of the counselor at the head of the group and of how positive he seemed to be, even as he pointed you out as someone who doesn’t deserve much range of freedom.  You catch yourself before plummeting into anything more paranoid.  After food, shower, rest, maybe you can put your metaphorical fighting gloves back on, but for now you decide to retreat in your aggressiveness a bit.  It proves to be a nearly impossible task, well, especially when you understand that food, shower, rest is not that near in your future.  You’re crammed into one of those van functioning cabs, and the conversation is buzzing lightly and almost pleasantly.  You tune it out for most of the trip and keep your mind out of focus.  There is an explanation on how different counselors come at different times of the day at the airport, and how they had an organized grid of landings and who gets to pick up who, and how it was simply such a fun task to take up, greeting so many children from far away.  It brings a twisted smile to your face, one of bitter mockery, but it’s a nice start.  There is more said and exchanged, but mostly what captures your attention is that one girl who actually seemed older than you, the one who’d arrived after you; _hallelujah your age group might not be deserted after all_...  “Oh boy, I am really looking forward to taking a shower,” she tells the man, and you can pick up on her accent, you just can’t really pick up on where she is from, which is frustrating because you know some part of your mind has the possibility to access that information, you know you’d just been at her arrival gate.  

It sounds like the lot of you have activities planned as soon as you arrive on site, games to get better acquainted, and then later on a tour, and then a little assignment meeting: who will be the other members of your team, who will you be bunking with, these sorts of details.  And food much later.  And showers even later.  And rest even farther in the future.  You can almost sense the way your built-up anger claws at your stomach, whines and demands to grow in dimensions and to catch your entire energy and attention.  Instead you lean against the car door, once again reveling in the small comfort of having the window seat, and glance out to the world.  The landscape is very akin to one of a desert, but that doesn’t truly hold your interest either.  The hues do frame the azure of the sky nicely though, and you get lost in the almost not clouds in the sky and finally tune out the buzzing conversation successfully.  You miss the part where it is shared that a very small portion of campers or, students, like you apparently are yourself, arrive by plane.  You didn’t get to hear that most parents like to travel with their children.  

There is a change in the quality of the driving, and you can tell you are driving up a hill; you weren’t going to peel your eyes away from the skies just to acknowledge this though.  That stubbornness is irrelevant as your view of the sky gets veritably obstructed.  The building is imposing and impressive, and you weren’t quite expecting anything like it.  It seemed stripped out of NASA’s own campus, and you tune into the conversation again.  It is one of many buildings here.  This is where you sleep and eat and such, this is where you live.  The aluminum and eggshell tints and domed structure alone gets your heart to lift.  You are the last one to walk through the door; dark blue, with a similar look to any doors you’d push open at school during the year.  You’re dragging along your unneeded but completely cherished suitcase.  You follow through and into what easily seems to be the main hall.  And instead of being quite elevated, your heart constricts as well.  Your mind should have been avalanched with new information, should be racing to keep up with the many new faces, to correlate the loud crowd to the very few people you’d crossed outside, people you hadn’t even noticed out there, but there had been, a few secluded families giving their warm goodbyes…  You should have been trying to correlate this loudness to the way conversation had only buzzed lightly within the car’s space, how this space offered echoes and echoes and echoes.  The volume has a different effect though, and the spot directly below your ears starts to burn and throb.  You could have headed for the table of food, the banquet or whatever, seeing as food was the first thing on your wish list, you could have deduced that there was such a thing, you could see the paper plates amidst the sea of people.  You can’t.  

The only thing that comes to mind is your father’s absence, and you had never really considered homesickness, but maybe that is much more related to you never leaving your house than to your independence.  You attempt to retrace your steps and immediately as you spin on your heels, you collide with the girl who was walking at your pace, the girl from your group, the last one arrived via plane.  She asks you a question, you can tell by the way her eyebrows quirk, but you can’t read her lips, nor can you hear her.  Besides, your suitcase pushes into someone’s leg as you try to go against the flow and so you quickly discard this escape plan.  The echoes don’t give your mind any space and instead of striking out the possibility of escape, it quickly seeks out a different direction than the one you had just used for yourself.  You rush forward now, easily maneuvering your suitcase in between various pairs of legs and up to the front of your newly arrived group.  You’ve already forgotten if mister irritatingly upbeat counselor has given you his name or not.  He might just be easy enough to fool for you to find a way out.  So your voice rises, as an impressive rivaling force to the area’s crowd, and by the time it’s finished ringing out, you’ve already settled your suitcase next to him.  

“Sir?  I forgot something in the cab, hold on to my things, I’ll be right back.”  It’s a mingle of polite and not so polite, it’s the best and only thing you have to offer before you practically bounce out of your group’s flow and manage to speedily head back to the heavy door you had entered through.  You are not so sure what is this sudden rush that has seized you and is pushing you out of this environment’s way, but it’s too strong to ignore.  Anyway, the environment is too much to handle and has weakened you to a point where many simple thoughts are enough to infiltrate your system and to knock you into queasiness.  The thought of your father, the thought of certain ways others would glance at you, the thought of school, the thought of the heat.   

Opening the door to the exterior world has a sort of way to clutch you by the very source of your discomfort and of your dizziness and shake you back up to a standing position.  It’s a world of quiet and of warmth, and it’s only once the heat hits you again that you even take notice of the building’s overly powerful air conditioning system.  But the intensity of the sun’s shine and of the unsettling summer soundtrack that you can guess just a step away, leaves no place for you to crawl back into the room full of unfamiliar, hostile faces.  You have to rub your head slightly when you notice how the concept of hostility had already slipped into your thoughts, but once the door is cleanly shut behind you, you breathe easy once more.  This time you do notice a few people outside.  There are two girls sitting against the wall of the building, sharing a plate of food, older than you and probably acquaintances of a long time now.  There are a lot of various trios of coddling parents and flustered, yet content children.  Birdsongs are clearly heard outside and, despite your mood being an indicator for one of those days where you are two inches from yelling your lungs out for the continuous chirping to give you some peace and quiet, you are pleasantly lulled into a sense of ease by these sounds.  

You compulsively begin walking, lightly jogging, down and down the hill.  And suddenly, the acuteness of summer doesn’t leave you feeling nearly as bad as you had previously, for the entire day really.  Instead, your skin seems to be alit with distant memories of the summer, your consciousness helplessly trying to reach these and to make sense of them, if only to verify their legitimacy.  Newer and fresher memories are forgotten, you’ve forgotten how you had suspiciously and hurriedly abandoned your things to a person you already very much disliked, and you also have forgotten about this forced week away from home.  Instead, your heart is animated with an energy belonging to your childhood days and your eyes open up to a world with enhanced vibrancy.

Everyone outside of the building is calm, imbibed with the same feelings and memories as you, or so your perspective told you so, in contrast to the charged and loud atmosphere inside.  So when your trot stops midway down the hill and you glance up ahead to a boy you guessed was here for all the same reasons as everyone else, you couldn’t help but to feel safe in your assumption of the ease of approaching him.  And that thought, that drive to approach him is single handedly fed by his gaze.  He is holding up a camera, a camera you can only guess is utterly expensive or to which he accords great emotional attachment, if the personalized camera strap is any indication.  Your eyebrows furrow at the pattern of red cherries over yellow, wondering where he could have purchased such an eccentric thing.  Honestly, it wasn’t that detail that mattered, it was the aim of the camera, it was the detail that he was photographing the sky that truly mattered, it was that the sky spurred on your creativity as well and you immediately saw it as something special when being a trait shared with another person.   

It was entirely enough for you to put up a hand and wave to him energetically with a brief greeting of, “Hey there!”  

And that just happened to be enough for the newly encountered boy to turn around, lower his camera and present to you a detail even more defining than one of perspective and of creativity.  

You found, in an instant, that this is the sole moment of the day where you have been veritably angry.  It’s an appropriate sunglasses wearing day, sure, that much you will agree to without missing a single beat.  These sunglasses, however, seem just as unique as the camera strap, not to mention his halo of pale hair.  They’re aviators, or so you think, but that’s not what gets you going.  It’s the way the sun’s rays glint right off the appealing gold rims of the dark things.  

You can’t help yourself from pointing a finger his way and, without further explanation, tell the stranger, “Those are Ben Stiller’s shades.”  Not a question.   

 

\------------------

“But Dad, it’s like, the end of our childhood.  The end of an era?  Come on, it’s really, really, utterly important.”  

You’re fighting a losing war, his eyes have already returned to the morning’s newspaper.  You’re having none of it.  It just so happens that today is the day a particular item on EBay’s auction will end, it is now a matter of hours.  And your cowardice to ask to spend all of your accumulated money as well as the side request to borrow a bit more weeks in advance is now finally hitting you with insurmountable dead weight.  The truth is you probably should not have waited for such a lengthy time before requesting this.  At the same time, you are confident in your sense of urgency.  It’s now or never.  

“He keeps bragging and boasting about what he’s gotten me for my thirteenth birthday and, I mean, that is like half a year away.  I can’t let him best me.  We can’t let him win, Dad!”  

Some friendly competitiveness has always appealed to your father, but this time, it’s falling as flatly as your other convincing arguments.  You’d woken up as early as him this morning, up with the sun, as he always does, even on such a day as today, a Saturday.  You’d successfully beaten him at sneak attacks just an hour or two ago, he had almost jumped out of his skin when he’d realized you were awake as well.  You thought that would be a nice base afor asking him to spend copious amounts of money on someone you had not ever met face to face.  So far; not quite a success.  

“I think it’s the perfect gift, and I only have a little while before it’s gone!”  

You’re usually a bit too prideful to resort to begging, besides your father isn’t too keen of it either.  But there’s an upset sense of agitation that is rising within you and it seems to be slipping out with every word.  You don’t know if you are trying to prove yourself or what.  You can tell Dave is sort of intimidated by you half of the time and the other half he’s obsessively fishing for attention.  It’s not like you need further approval, yet…  Deep inside, you know it would mean a lot if you could get this right.  

“I know I complain about him a lot, but he’s really a good friend…  My best one.”  

Damn it all, you’ve started picking at your nails.  And now you can only hope your father is still scrutinizing the news sternly, because speaking with the heart when it’s anything sentimental and melodramatic is significantly scarier for you than doing it when it’s related to aggressive or critical topics.  

“I suppose you should show me this thing before I give my final answer.” 

Well, he must have seen it, but that’s insignificant now.  You don’t look up from the interesting subject of your nails to make sure that this is going as well as you are hoping it is, you basically rush out from your kitchen and take the quickest straightest route to get to your bedroom.  You assume he’ll follow, and if he doesn’t, you’ll yell at him to get upstairs (nicely of course).  

It’s not quite necessary, as your computer boots up your father enters your room, arms crossed as he watches the images play out on your screen.  You ignore the sound Pesterchum booting up, but you do have to stifle some nervous laughter when it’s followed, a few minutes later, by the continuous ringing sound of a chum pestering you.  (You don’t have to look to know that it’s Dave.)  

“See?  I owe him that much for all his time.”  Your tone is a bit sardonic, but you’ve been acting too fond of the guy all morning anyway.  You fight down the curiosity of opening the chat window, you’re guessing he’s questioning why you’d gotten up at such a surprisingly early time, but for now you stick to opening one of your bookmarks and to glancing back at your father with anticipation.  

“Son, I’m not sure you are aware of it, but there are actually many similar models for a tenth of that price.”  He sounds distracted as he leans over your shoulder, surely inspecting every word of the description.  

“No, you don’t understand.  His brother wears these god-awfully lame shades, and he has like the exact replica of them.  And he is going to get hunted down once we enter high school, can’t let that happen.”  

“And why is a cheaper model inappropriate?”  Silence falls quickly after, and you have to remind yourself very thoroughly that you cannot pick your nails in public twice in the same hour as you mull the words over in your mind.  

“Well…  I might have teased him too hard about it?  Like he has a really sore spot about being different or similar to his brother…”  You don’t have to glance at your father to guess the berating look he is giving you.  You’re starting to be a little too well known for your reputation to exploit people’s weak and sore spots.  And the sigh with which he states your name is enough for you to pipe up and to continue defending your purchase.  “But that’s ok, I am totally making it up by getting these sweet ones instead.  And they are Ben Stiller’s, like, Dave loves his ugly face, and now he’ll feel accepted about liking lame actors too.  All thanks to me!”  You clear your throat when your convincing turns a bit too sweet sounding for what you are actually saying.  More like admitting to giving Dave as hard a time as all your other acquaintances.  

You can’t believe it when he pulls his wallet out from his back pocket.  You immediately bolt out of your chair and spin the chair around to him.  He doesn’t look very pleased, he’s doing that thing where he rubs the bridge of his nose, it usually only happens at the end of a weekday.  So you start thanking him with every passing second as he enters the information to place the bid.  You catch on to why he looks so exhausted only a little too late.  

“We are going to have a serious discussion about the way you treat your friends tonight, is that understood?”  

You nod avidly.  But your gut feels as if it’s twisting as you absorb the words.  It’s becoming quite a frequent topic at home, and with most of your school teachers, but you don’t see yourself as a bully or anything, you don’t really get what the big deal is.  

That discussion never happens.  The day was more or less going smoothly, talking to your friends, playing a few games online, checking that, yes, you are still the highest bidder.  As far as standard goes, this meets the quota.  By the time the afternoon deepens and the closing hour for the coveted shades approaches, you’re feeling pretty confident with your gift.  There’s no way Dave will be outshining you this time.  

You’re sort of thankful that you’re only caught up in discussion with Jade now, you kind of really want to keep a close eye on the gift.  And that goes smoothly too.

You refresh a minute prior to the end, and the prize is yours.

So, yes, it does take you some time to realize some asshole out there got ahead of you with the minimal amount they could have outbid you with and that, probably, yes, two or three seconds before the deal was assured.  Whoever the asshole is, he’s probably an expert at this sort of shit.  

You spend a solid minute wishing you could be the asshole who was an expert at this sort of shit.  And you sourly regret not staying in that state of mind a single minute later, when the fact that you are literally inconsolable presses down on your shoulders.

Your father ends up having to build you back up and having to cheer you up too, so you never get that repeat of ‘why it’s not ok to be insensitive to other people’s feelings’.  The point still stands that you yourself can get sensitive too, and that you hadn’t seen this hit coming.  It doesn’t strike you how right it had felt to purchase those shades until the option had been ripped away from you.   

 

 

\------------------

As far as spending went in the Strider household, Dave didn’t have to and, simply put, didn’t announce whenever he made a purchase or not.  In fact, his brother’s credit card information was nicely saved on his browser, and anything he wanted to claim from the online world came to him in a matter of a few clicks.  Though that was the case, his brother didn’t have much reason to scold him or to even be irritated with his wordless behavior.  The frequency with which the boy spent the money was scarce and the reason why was quite easy to make out.  Whenever he bought something, it’s because he really wanted it.  And whatever that may be, it was going to be overused.  

More often than not, it was the older sibling who had to push the boy out of the house so they could go shopping for necessities.  This tended to happen when Dave started wearing the same joke shirt he’d bought online every other day or so.  

Dave doesn’t quite manage to sneak up to him, but he’s still taken aback when he feels the younger Strider’s presence behind him.  He’d assumed it was to show him something online, and so he automatically opens up a new tab and puts his hands up and away from the keyboard.  He’s even more taken aback however when the other mumbles something about a thing or another he wants to buy.  

He’s not quick to voice suspicions though, so instead he leans his chin again his fist, scrutinizing the wariness etched into Dave’s traits.  He himself had trouble holding back a similar sentiment; what sort of a new odd quirk did the boy have that he absolutely had to alert his brother about?  He probably shouldn’t be worried, he knew the kid, his interests were most often harmless and innocent.  And though he obviously strived on doing as many things as possible that could go in the same direction as his sole other family member, said member could see that Dave took a liking to things of a more sensible nature.  He did pride himself in not questioning the other, god knew he wanted to make a joke or two when he’d bring back home shoeboxes filled with animal carcasses under the pretense of preserving them.  And that turned out to be a genuine steady hobby the older Strider obliged himself to live with.  

If this turned out to be even weirder and darker, he was thinking maybe they could have a family talk.  He wasn’t too fond of those, but he couldn’t let his ‘offspring’ spiral into the wrong direction.  The color theme of EBay catches his eye, but he still observes the kid, trying to pinpoint just what was that tension in his face and why it was necessary to this encounter.  The website wasn’t super reassuring either, he was mentally preparing himself for some weird request, and he just didn’t know how to tell him no yet.  He could tell it wasn’t a popular opinion, but to him, Dave was such a nice person, quiet and compassionate, he had no complaints there.  It felt too cruel to refuse a good and nice person.  

“Kid, I’m not going to say no, you can stop looking like you’re about to piss yourself.”  Straightforward, to the point, just the way he liked it.  Despite this, the answer he gets is the shadow of a shallow laugh.  Not a good sign.  

Dave’s hands pull away from the keyboard, and he realizes after a few heavy moments that his brother isn’t letting up on staring him down.  “I was just wondering if I could bid on this, would you be cool with that?”  

He glares at the way Dave’s fingers curl around the chair’s armrest, he’s confident that the other takes the cue not to start fidgeting, but he gives him a break regardless, glancing at the screen with the utmost lack of interest he could summon.  

He’s positive the look he gives the screen, and then consecutively the one he gives Dave from over his shoulder, must be the most expressive he’s been in years.  “Nah, I think Ben Stiller is decent, why would I be against this?”  There must have been some huge detail that was slipping right out of his vision.  Some big elephant in the room that was only visible to Dave.  

“Well I was planning on wearing them, you know?”  

“Yes, I know, kid, that’s usually what you would do with shades.”  He points at his own pair, his expression reverting to one of complete boredom, despite the way his mind was still uselessly searching for some hint.  

A clear indeterminable sound is heard and he only barely has time to look back to understand the way Dave had flicked his fingers against the temples of his own pair of identical shades.  He has time to grin before the younger of the two had time to drain all color from his visage.  “You know, I won’t believe you if you tell me you’ve outgrown those, ‘cause I’m easily twice your age, and look at me.”  

“I know, bro, it’s just, it’s not super cool to do everything your brother does, I…  Right?”  

The tension was gone now, his brother was proud to know that he had easily exuded the vibe that there was no big deal in this request.  The message had been clear and quick, and yet Dave’s constant yet subtle fight for approval was quite vocal within his words.  

“Has someone been giving you a hard time?”  He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to tone down or tone up the protectiveness emerging now.  Truth was, as far as children went, he wasn’t a typical model.  Why wouldn’t he be a target at school?  It was a hard task to think of him as such though, he still knew him too well, trusted him to be the good kid that he saw.  Who would want to harm the good and honest hearted?  

“Nah, I think it was probably friendly teasing.  But, what if he has a point?”  

He recognizes the wariness and defeat in his posture, he recognizes it as the attitude he adopts whenever he had to question him about the friends he had made online.  He didn’t exactly have a problem with that, if no one could fill up his good friends slots in the city, he could go looking elsewhere.   He did have a problem, however, with people intimidating him, even if it was from far away.  

“Well, he doesn’t, kiddo.  Drawing inspiration from others is a sign of open-mindedness and wisdom.  It doesn’t matter how close to home you get it from.”  He tries to set aside the expression of dejection he can only read too well behind the shades that, now that he looked a bit closer, just seemed a bit out of place over his young features.  “Though, I’ve got to admit, I think these could suit you nicely.”

He had to turn away from him so that he wouldn’t smile at the obvious way he lit up at the statement.  

“Ok, ok, let’s bid now!”  The elder Strider had to physically restrain him from taking over the keyboard again, adding yet another new tab to the window he had opened.  “We are bidding on this like true winners do, understood?  So for now, we can play some game online, or maybe we can like do a collaborative comic, you name it.”  

“Does bidding like winners involve just not doing it?”  He frowned as he tried to seat himself on the armrest, crossing his arms impatiently.  

“Nope, means we wait for the last minute to sweep the prize for ourselves at the lowest price we can get.  Don’t worry, I’ve done this enough times to make it work.”  

Dave was quiet for a few seconds, toying with random knickknacks set on the work desk.  After a while, he tells him, with a slight laugh.  “Man, we sound like such assholes.”  But later, when the confirmation page for their purchase is displayed, he accepts his brother’s high five with barely contained glee.  

 

\------------------

“Wrong.  These are mine.”  

Something strange happens when his eyes truly set on you.  You’re close enough now for the shape of his eyes to be defined, for you to understand when he looks your way, and understand that he must have a habit of letting his eyes fleet from one detail to the next.  But for that first moment, something strange happens to your eyes instead, and you have to blink several times to get the strange and unidentifiable color or movement you are picking up on to fade.  

“They’re Ben Stiller’s,” you repeat, and you can understand why you would be furious to find the owner of this pair, but you still feel helpless at the rising levels of hostility you are putting out.  

He places his hands over his hips and you have the slight urge to laugh at this, but there is something in his presence that holds you back.  You wouldn’t say it’s intimidating, but maybe it’s that diaphanous sensation that had swept over your vision when your eyes had first crossed.  You’re trying to concentrate on your feelings of fury, you really are, but there is an intrigue that is keeping your emotions sharp and to the point.  

“Name the movie.”  It was just arrogant enough, just boastful enough for you to know that whoever this was, they had clearly purchased those shades consciously, and had taken away your perfect present for your closest friend.  

“Beats me, I’d be ashamed to name any of his god awful films.”  

You still had this strange urge to laugh when he gave you a look of disbelief, one that was almost offended.  The mixture of finding this person funny as well as being incredibly angry at them was irritating you at quite a rapid pace.   

“In any case, they’re mine now, got them fair and square.”  

And that was it, game over.  You turned on your heel and walked darkly back up the hill, literally fuming even as your mind pictured any options of the comical expressions he might be sporting now.  In fact, when you glance back, only seven steps later, he’s staring at you still, camera in hand, and shades so perfectly harmonized to his face.  That’s when the hurt mingles into that infuriated energy that had swept over you.  Fair and square?  He’d stolen those from right beneath your fingers.  He’d stolen them from your best friend.  Those had been meant for Dave, and seeing them in person, in the real world, only added to that reality.  

Your anger was solidly replaced by longing and sorrow, faster than you realized, you remembered the empty space your closer friends would be leaving in your life for the next week.  Instead of returning inside the building immediately, you decide to walk once around it.  It’s surprisingly long, and by the time you make it back around, the sun is still hitting as intensely, but no one is to be found outside.  You think about the weird trick your eyes had played on you earlier, but most of all, you pray you don’t cross paths with that douchebag again.


	2. One-Sided Confrontation

You’re starting to really appreciate your backpack.  Or at the very least the insides of your hands are starting to memorize the shape and texture of its straps very well.  They would gladly be exchanging your suitcase’s handle, in that vaguely irritating switching motion, but apparently that artifact of yours has been shipped away.  Your dearest and best friend, a certain counselor who shall remain nameless, has very kindly brought your suitcase to your bed; a bed you have absolutely no idea is located where, but it was kind nonetheless.  You try to keep yourself from thinking of it as a total breech of your personal space and of your personal belongings, because, yes, after all, you were in fact the person to leave him in the possession of your suitcase.  Despite all this melodrama, you think you’re kind of getting a clearer grasp of things now.  Your walk has helped clear your head up in that way, in the way that you understand now, you’re here to meet that person who thought it would be funny to rob you of the most cosmically great and accurate present for one Dave Strider, and you’re here to make that person’s life absolute hell.  

Though each time you do reach that conclusion, your mind is filled with a loud steering noise, and the more you push this thought to blossom, the more the sound hisses and transforms into one of white noise instead.  You get that victimizing someone in this context must be the most anti-productive thought to ever come to you, you get it, alright.  You’re here to prove that you’re a good kid and that you don’t stoop to those sorts of levels.  This, however, is ultimate temptation, and you just can’t understand how this poor excuse of spending a week of your summer ‘learning’ and ‘cooperating’ won’t turn out to be your downfall.  There was just no way that how the bridge of those damn shades sat so blatantly on that kid’s dumb upturned nose wasn’t an obvious taunt to you as a person.  It was unfair.  It was infuriating.  And you’re oh so sure you can get away with ruining that person’s week; you just have to be sneaky about it, manipulative, innocent yet powerful.  

It’s not even like he isn’t asking for it.  As all of you are briefed, the sun’s setting rays illuminating the great hall via the skylights you hadn’t quite noticed until the phenomenon had started a few minutes ago, amidst the sea of young faces…  And you have to admit that this sea is much more imposing than you had anticipated and has a greater range of age than you had previously theorized as well, in fact, if you concentrate on this detail you can’t help but to feel significantly younger than you know you are entitled to.  All that is water under the bridge of course, your point stands in one small detail, yet again, of all these chattering and lively beings, only one of them had the guts and the stupidity to have their eyes hidden behind dark tinted lenses, and you are starting to think that the aloofness emitted from this boy (even though something rakes at your subconscious and has you smiling when you think of how this aloofness is slightly goofy) is even more irksome than the good mood and upbeat attitude that apparently the entire staff has obliged themselves to constantly portray.  

Come on, it’s obvious to you, and it should be too, he’s kept them on just to push that taunt even a bit farther.  And now he can only be doing it consciously, you had ambushed him after all, you had almost hissed at the item, and he had conveniently kept them on!  That wasn’t all either.  What was particularly irking now was how attentive he seemed to be, sure, his eyes were hidden, and he still had that camera around his neck as if he was too much of a hotshot to be listening, his arms were crossed too, he looked like he thought he was too cool to listen, yes.  But he remained so focused on the presentation, and that you can confirm because the person you were focused on the whole time, was him.  And that too was frustrating, it really, really was, because under no circumstance did he pick up on the weight of your gaze, and you could glare at him all you wanted, rows and rows of children away from him, but not once did he seem to falter under the intensity of your stare.  He was taunting you, but you were completely irrelevant to him. 

When that sea of students started to part though, he suddenly transformed to be a man on a mission, moving and weaving with a force of determination that had your mind draw a blank for a moment or two, long enough for you to notice that, though they did in a much more gawky manner, most people were in fact directing themselves into different groups and you, as surprising as that may seem, had completely missed whatever instruction that was guiding the others.   You forget to even notice the person who reaches for you and tries to help you out because you are so concentrated on hating the apparition of the boy with the pale hair and with the shades that weren’t truly his, to the point where you can’t even register if their voice is one of a boy or a girl.  They try to explain that you’re regrouping into the programs you’d picked when you had signed up for camp, but you are sadly much too concentrated on hating the fact that it wasn’t some middle aged loser with an obsession for Ben Stiller who had outbid you, it was just some kid your age.  

They keep insisting, and you have to snap at them; “Do I look like I fucking remember?  I picked the one that made me feel the least suicidal.”  You also have to roll your eyes as you move away, because you don’t really understand how to calm down your bad mood without striking down anyone who comes even near you.  By some not so lovely not so much of a coincidence, the counselor who is utterly out to control you and who has sent away your super awesome suitcase veritably tracks you down and sets you back to order.  You don’t really listen all that much, but you can tell, over the buzzing chattering of the crowd, that he’s being very soft and understanding about his indications.  You don’t appreciate it, and you mean that, not even a little bit.  Your only reaction is possibly the slow shift of your eyes to follow the group he is pointing out, and the dark look you’re well known for giving away as freely and as openly as you can, must have gained a few levels of experience just in that motion.  Of course golden boy with the golden shades and the pretty little perfect attitude is right at the head of the group that has been pointed out for you, and you swear to all that is good that you are two inches away from throwing down the towel and giving up on this whole idea of camp.  

Truth be told, you hadn’t quite picked up on the announcement of an oncoming and massive headache, but now it had built up to a point of undeniable.  You made your way to the group, around thirty kids you’d guess, but you kept your eyes riveted on the source of your torture and misery.  Shockingly, it did everything but help, and as you walked there, with a rage and intent unlike the one he had borrowed earlier, you try to remember the way colors had slightly shimmered outside when your eyes had met, it’s enough for you to pick up on the numbness of your temples.  And that provokes the sharp dizziness of the suddenly impressive migraine that has fallen upon you.  And instead of that slight glimmer, the little something that was off and called for attention, your eyes only refused your focus in the same violent way your head had, nourishing a slow burn that brought tears to your eyes.  It’s only once you accept that you want a break from staring at this kid who was still a stranger to you that your locked jaw and grinding teeth catch your attention; so you spend a large portion of your time, once again not quite listening, but instead running your tongue over your teeth and trying to relax the tension off your face.  

You catch a few words here and there however, but you think what truly helps is that you’d known all of this information previously, it helps that your father had been all about this for the last few weeks.  It had been painful to withstand, but you’d humored him, somewhat, well, you at least pretended you also agreed that this was a good idea.  But as the adult at the very lead of the group, a girl with too straight teeth and very long hair, reminds you of the detail that within the dumb and dull programs you could pick yourself, you were divided into teams, a surge of competitiveness reignited your suddenly broken down mind and spirit.  You stand just a bit taller, chin tilted in assurance.  This would be great.  Teams, you’d forgotten.  You’d humiliate that sunglasses wearing jerk in the most stunning and striking defeat this camp has ever met with.  You are so determined actually that you almost jump out of your skin when your name is called first, not having understood that this sorting of sorts was happening live at that instant.  But you have the decency to return to paranoid thoughts as you move to the front, hands gripping the straps of your backpacks with all the power that you can muster.  You don’t like how your name’s been called first, as if you had to absolutely be put in your place before everyone else.  You feel your drive plummet down to zero as a sudden urge to return outside grips you.  

In reality, you don’t even have the time to conceptualize a plan to learn the object of your hatred’s name.  It’s not that you were planning to use his name!  It would just be a good track to get mean nicknames.  Though you suppose it’s not quite necessary, you can find a good handful without any help at all, probably!  But as you miss his name and he is placed into your team, along with six other kids (and you actually sigh when you piece together that your team is all one gender and that, now that you look around, there aren’t that many girls in this particular program in your particular age group), and the only name you can think of as he blows a strand of hair out of his face is blondie.  And you have to admit that it isn’t quite as insulting as you want it to be.  You try to convince yourself that he’s probably been made fun of for the atypical shade of his hair, but the damn thing actually looks like a halo.  And you bet he’d probably smirk and feel good about himself if you called him that.  

The point you’re trying to make this time is that…  He’s on your team.  Fan-fucking-tastic, looks like your competitive edge has been in vain.  Surely there was some way to get under his skin, to get him back for taking away your prize all those months ago.  You could league everyone in your group against him, make him the outcast, the black sheep, you could definitely make him feel lousy.  And oh, how lucky, from extra information given to you, you understand that your teammates are actually your roommates too, and why the fuck not, after all there were no girls involved in your particular team, and most teams really.  You try not to pull a face as the idea of sleeping in a room with such a high number of people hits you, like a nice rain of bricks, and instead attempt to focus on the positive side of things.  The closer and most often you are with blondie, the easier it’ll be to turn his life into a veritable train wreck.  

You somehow manage to snap yourself out of those thoughts.  And for a little while, it becomes a stray thought.  You get back in line with all of the other kids, and you try to seem half interested by introductions such as origins and names.  It sort of helps that the guy kind of only slinks around, not quite ever offering his own input.  No introduction is the best introduction for him, you’d say.  You also think that food plays a major part in the easiness of forgetting about your half sketched schemes and plans.  You weren’t even aware that supper was yet to come, with today’s luck, you had accepted the fate of having missed out on the day’s earlier banquet.  But you find yourself seated with your new acquaintances, by the windows…  There isn’t really a lack of windows here, and really you couldn’t appreciate more the windowed walls of the cafeteria.  You could have made with a few trees in less in your vision, a clearer shot of the sky is always a nice add-on.  But as you shovel down your second portion of the cafeteria’s menu of the night, you forget to feel quite as testy or as nasty as you had previously felt.  In fact, the way the fluorescent lights of the room caught on the gold rims of his stupidly coveted eyewear wasn’t even unpleasant to you, just a detail to note down amongst other things.  

And as the sun sunk lower into the sky and the hours ticked away, your rowdiness and aggressiveness seemed to ebb away and you started finding a somewhat comfort in the easy conversation and the warm food.  Getting in the shower was nice too.  You mean, you weren’t a fan of the high number of showers all situated in one vast room, but at least they were separated, and you assume the ‘common’ in common showers could be more drastic.  Even though the idea of putting your feet where others’ bare feet have also took footing makes your blood run cold.  The water is warm and nice though, and you end up staying in the showers considerably longer than most.  By the time you’ve found your living area, where your suitcase is waiting for you on one of the bottom bunks, you are ecstatic to pull on your pajamas from home.  

You’re not even that angry about the sleeping arrangements once you are actually in place.  You guess the layout sort of makes sense.  The room feels elongated, and the bunks aren’t wooden as every image in your mind could have suggested, they instead seemed to be built of a futuristic plastic, the greenish hues almost calming.  It seemed as if they were the same material as the walls which did seem to add space to the room.  Even the ladders up to the beds were nice and sleek.  Two rows of two bunks on each side of the room, spaced in such a way that from the upper level you could hop on to your neighbor’s mattress, or could turn to face the person across the room.  It was alright, like a continued slumber party, you were imagining.  You remember having seen something once about capsule hotels in Japan, and you tell yourself that there is always worse.  All that really mattered to you was getting one of those mattresses on the upper level.  You’d say it’s to get closer to the sky, but given the context it sounds quite dumb.  The room doesn’t really offer space for windows, and concordantly there aren’t any, which gives the room a vibe of secrecy.  The artificial lighting is soothing though, and you relish in that detail as you move your suitcase off from the bottom bed it had been placed onto.  

No thank you, you wouldn’t be taking the bed that that counselor had picked out.  You don’t even say anything to the others, you’d rather not ask permission as you are under the impression that there are just bound to be protests with the high number of boys involved.  You do send a conspicuous glance over your shoulder to where they were still getting to know one another better.  They were occupying the two first bottoms bunks nearest to the door, face to face, some were sitting on the floor, and mister black sheep (maybe you wouldn’t have to do a thing at all to single him out) was sitting nonchalantly on one of the steps of the ladder.  You grit your teeth to keep your mind from escalating to a furious state of being, and climb up the ladder of the bed in the corner opposite to the door.  And as soon as you are up and in place, taking the time to fluff your pillow, you know it’s the right choice, and you already feel much more at ease being this higher up compared to the others.  

For a brief second, you’re hit by the fear that you are actually the one being singled out as of now…  It fades as your ascent seems to spread a trend through the room, and right before your eyes you watch as others resign themselves to taking up their beds and thinking of sleep.  A few engage into games of rock-paper-scissors, in a fight for different beds.  You listen, only with one ear, to whispers of excitement to start out things tomorrow morning.  Instead, you end up chatting with the boy who settles into the bed directly lined up to yours.  He moves to the edge of his bed and calls you out.  

“John, was it?”  

You shrug, scooting to the edge of yours as well, trying not to swell up in pride that there was at least a person or two who already had picked up on your name.  Though you do still think all of the counselors have spotted you already, but that’s for the wrong reasons and you don’t really want to over think it.  

“Did you say why you decided to sign up?”  

You tried to keep eye contact though you could almost feel the imposed silence on the room now, as if others were tuning in to get the answer too.  And the thought that everyone was looking down on you caught up with you brutally; enough so for you to feel panicked for a moment or two.  

“I’m a delinquent and this is like my prison time.”  You waved your hand dismissively as you spoke, your smile defiant and full of spite.  But that was alright, you knew they’d eat that right out the palm of your hand.  If you made yourself sound cool for things you were embarrassed by, it could probably work in your favor.  

You still felt a slight and off sort of self-consciousness.  And without meaning to, your eyes scouted the room, trying to find the boy with the original appearance, you were hopeful at first, thinking that maybe he could be in the lower bunk diagonally to yours.  That would be a dream, that way you wouldn’t have to see him, and he wouldn’t be directly under you.  The last place your eyes reach however is the mattress across yours, and surely enough, parallel to you, there he is.  You don’t know if you should feel insulted that he isn’t tuned into what you were saying, after all you had felt yourself tense up at the thought of him listening in.  It still somehow managed to anger you when you saw him, straight as a plank, under his blankets, large headphones nicely in place over his ears.  Your eyes squinted as you tried to recognize the brand, and you almost scoffed at the thought that it must be some independent company of some sort. 

You had the perfect view of his profile, so you could make out his downturned eyelids, but…  But you guess that that rested and calm spirit that he was portraying just couldn’t protect him from your urge to provoke him.  Simply put, he was still wearing the shades.  In his too large pajamas, blankets heavily set over him, listening to music, he still hadn’t taken off the stupidly expensive sunglasses.  

It was quite enough to set you off.  And in no time, you were countering and dodging questions about you to redirect them to him, confident in the isolating factor of his headphones.  

“Don’t you think you really have to take yourself seriously to keep sunglasses on, not only indoors, but in bed too?”  

And, fortunately, that was enough to start off a cascade of gossip.  Kids, or teenagers now you guess, were easy to read in that way.  It was so easy to volunteer someone as a target, but you said nothing of it, just smirked as someone muttered something about him going into the showers with the things still on.  It progressed quickly, the boy who’d approached you first telling you how blondie, David he tells you, from what the list had said, because he’d yet said anything to anyone, had apparently hitchhiked to space camp.

You were nodding avidly, wanting to pour oil on the fire, but also secretly ecstatic to how others called it space camp and not the stupid titles your father had tried to make you remember.  Your victory was sweet, it would be easy, so easy to make this a terrible experience for…  David.  You mentally repeat the name a few times, finding it quite, well, unfitting.  But you assumed that must be due to your urge to use hurtful names for him instead.  

This victory is short, even though it escalades nicely throughout the night, lights out coming in before you had even abandoned the topic.  The thing to break off your successful streak was in fact the object of your conversation.  And as soon as he shot up from his pillow, headphones seeming to magically fall around his neck at his command (though you’re angry his shades don’t seem to move places in such a way), you’re almost ready to retract in on yourself and to play the role of the victim.  The others quiet down in a similar way too, though you have to gesture to those in the lower beds opposing you to keep quiet with a cutting gesture to your throat.  You’re worried when he moves off his bed and hops into his neighbor’s, ready to pounce out of the room to alert someone that there was a fistfight going down.  It’s only once your eyes land on the particular bed that it dawns to you that whoever was in there hadn’t participated to any of the conversations.  

It’s also then that you notice this person to be in tears.  And you watch absently as David moves to his side, his back to you.  You don’t hear a thing, and you can’t help but to wildly wonder how he managed to keep his tone hushed in such an intimate room, but you keep your eyes on them as the other boy wipes his eyes profusely, face reddened with emotion.  There’s a stale sort of taste on the back of your tongue as the headphones are handed over to the upset boy and the still shaded boy showed him something on the music player’s screen, seeming to explain something.

The rest of you had fallen quiet.  You yourself have decided to turn away and to set your glasses down next to your pillow, in the corner of your bed. You ignore the gripping jealousy that you can’t really identify.  That person was most likely homesick.  You were homesick too, you could vaguely feel it underneath the layers of impatience and anger.  

You must have dozed off, but in the middle of the night, as you turn away from the wall, you see that David, it still sounds weird but you think that might really be his name, has turned towards his wall instead.  But you also see his folded shades, placed nicely on the pillow right next to his head.  And you feel that envy again that he had reached out for someone that wasn’t you.  Mostly, you felt envious of how emotionally responsive he had been, despite having seemed so detached and so withdrawn, when you had failed to even pick up on the person’s blatant feelings.  You fall asleep again, feeling guilty and small.  

 

\------------------

“Well, it was just a prank.”  

The retort had been thrown around a lot lately.  It worked well enough most of the time, your classmates had seemed willing to accept it, but then again you think it might just have to do with the way you put as much energy as possible into your claims.  Or maybe it had something to do with how they weren’t exactly guiltless either, and though you’ve been pegged down as the leader, you know very well that with the effects it had had, it could only be a group effort.  And your father had seemed accepting enough too when he had received the phone call and you’d told him, straight to the point, it was just a joke, just some showmanship.  You know those are the sorts of terms he will accept warmly.  But now that you’d veritably been convoked into your principal’s office and he had to hear different words put onto the ordeal, you’re not so sure your father is still entirely supportive of your position.  

“Cruel pranks are not tolerable.”  

You weren’t breaking the principal’s continued stare, you weren’t going to cave.  You were as unwilling to back up as ever, and though you could admit to some form of anxiety lodged somewhere in your chest, the force of your glare was easy to hold on to.  

“It’s not like she was ever in harm’s way.  Not like she could have gotten injured.”  

Your father had a harsh stare too however, and you somehow could tell it was being directed your way now.  Your hands curled into fists over your lap, you were belatedly realizing just how trapped the situation had you feeling.

“Words can be just as hurtful as—”

“That is so dumb!  I haven’t done anything wrong.”  You turned to your father with that, pointedly ignoring his rigid and stern posture.  “It’s true, I haven’t.”  

There’s a sigh you can make out on his lips and you try to stay calm, you know he’d picked up on the roll of your eyes and on how you hadn’t hesitated to interrupt your superior.  The words had been so clichéd though, in fact, all the arguments made against you were turning out to be so clichéd and they had you panicking at the thought of being caged in by lazy reasoning.  

“Then please explain, John, why it is that your classmate is too terrified to show up to school anymore.”  

Everything in the way he was speaking to you was too standard, too banal, and you felt the need to ask him to just be angry if he was angry, not to take up these sinuous routes just to let you know that he was unhappy with your behavior.  Regardless, you still wouldn’t admit to your wrongfulness.  

“I don’t know…  She’s a drama queen?  It sure beats me.”  

Your answer was so dull that you weren’t in any way surprised when your father reprimanded you, with a short exclamation of your name, but you weren’t having any of it now.  “You know what?  No.  This is unfair, she loved to put people down, and I just served it back to her.  If you can’t take it, don’t dish it out.”  

You almost flinched at the end of your sentence, feeling your father’s growing displeasure, but you were almost thankful when your principal cleared his throat deeply.  

“In any case, harassment is not justified.  You know full well we have a zero tolerance politic for bullying.”  

You couldn’t help but to throw your hands up in protest, mouth gaping slightly and eyebrows curved downwards for an overall appearance of disbelief.  And with the best smile you could muster, you told them both, “She deserved it.”  And it had the lovely and intended effect of shushing the office into utter silence.

As they both seemed to be brewing up a storm up in silence, you were quietly congratulating yourself on your continued honesty.  Truth be told, you weren’t so entirely sure why you had started acting up in such a way these past few months.  It’s not like you were the sort of person who went around serving justice to wrong doers.  More truth told, you were aware that you’d hurt the girl from your class, Cassidy.  It had just happened so normally though…  You really had been fed up with her sharp laughter and mean retorts.  She put most things down, without considering the impact of her words.  You were aware that you’d planned out the repercussions of your words though.  And you’d carefully shattered her reputation and her integrity, only shrugging coldly in the last week she had still been attending school, crying more often than not.  

No one had reached out to her though, you had ignited the fire, but you weren’t the root of all bad.  You’re pretty sure she would have only needed a single friend to tilt her chin back up.  And no one had been willing to do that.  Though you think that just speaks in volumes of how dislikeable she had been in the first place.  

Still in truth, for you it had been in good fun.  You’d put her back in her place, and if that place sucked, that was her doing, wasn’t it?  

You weren’t entirely sure as the meeting progressed and you watched your father wrap a hand around his forehead.  You were guessing the mixture of disappointment and headache, but you pressed your lips together, glancing now warily at your principal as he gave his dumb verdict.  “John will be suspended for the end of the school year.  I’ll have it arranged for him to come take the exams in a separate classroom.  But I advise you put him in camp this summer so he can properly interact with children of his age and perhaps redeem and rethink his past and current behavior.”  

You were grimacing, ready to laugh at the decisions he was making.  But your father was going straight for it, already deep in discussion of options and other activities that could reform you.  You hear something about volunteering and you can’t keep your voice down long enough to keep in a loud protest to save your summer.  

It seems that you’re the one being put back into your place now though, and your father tells you, clearly and shortly, “You’ll take what we arrange for you and you’ll be grateful.”  And his glare translates that you deserve much worse.  You try not to think about that.  

 

\------------------

He walked through the door, all breathless smiles and colorful cheeks.  It was apparent, just in the way the water dripped from his hair and the way his knees kept bouncing as he peeled off his boots that he had run all the way home under the now pouring rain and had only stopped once he was up the fifty something flights of stairs.  Instead of catching that breath back into his system, he wrapped his lips around the straw of his just recently purchased drink, humming as he drank and not making a move to shrug off his backpack or now significantly soaked hoodie.  His brother did tell him that very same morning to wear lighter clothes to school, but Dave couldn’t exactly brag of the presence of his hooded top when he hadn’t even made a move to put it over his head of now darker yet still pale hair.  Besides, the man looked surprisingly concentrated, seated on a kitchen counter and hunched over what seemed to be an important paper.  

Dave trotted up to him nonetheless, slurping at his drink quietly and quirking up his eyebrows, waiting for the attention he didn’t usually have to parade around for.  When it never came, and the other Strider almost looked as if he wouldn’t be moving out of the position ever again, he drew back from the large straw, pouting for only a split second before trying to bring the focus back to him.  

“I swear I must have a secret power, bro.”  

There was a distinct lack of response, but he tried not to get discouraged by it, seeing it instead as an opportunity to elaborate and explain and convincingly set up a cool topic of conversation.  

“Like, I mean, every time I’m at school and I get the urge for green apple bubble tea, from the place down the street, right?   Well, every single time, by the time I get to the store, it’s raining.  And today, I was like shocked and amazed that I might get it without a rainstorm, but then I stepped outside, and look at me?  Like, woah!”  

Alright, maybe it wasn’t that cool, but anyway he hadn’t succeeded at getting the other to even acknowledge his presence, not even a wave of the hand or anything.  And now that he was failing at a more continuous rate to grab his interest, he was remembering how uncommon that was.  How he often had to escape his brother; because the attention was just too much.  A soundless sigh later, he was leaning against the counter right next to his brother, looking up to him with the most pitiful look he could muster behind his cherished and rounder shades.  He’d had them for…  Half a year now, and still he couldn’t help but to marvel that he’d done it, he’d actually took a hesitant step out of his brother’s shadow.  But he wasn’t about to go around boasting about it to his closer, yet physically farther, friends.  Though he sought their approval, making it too blatant made him uncomfortable.  

“The girl at the counter asked me for only half of the price too, I think they really like me there.”  He frowned as he put his lips back to the straw, sipping casually as he tried to make out the words on the formal looking piece of paper.  A second later, his eye caught the opened envelope, and his own name jumped out at him.  

“Hey, wait, what are you reading?”  

The return address was a little harder to process, but in no time he was gaping, horror settling onto his mood.  He put the cup of bubble tea down with purpose, staring with round and cautious eyes.  

“No, but, it’s addressed to me, hand it back.”  

At least he didn’t have enough time to analyze just how flatly his words had fallen, because as soon as he reached to snatch back the letter, his brother’s gloved hand landed on his forehead, pushing him off to the side.  And that was it, the start of heartless roughhousing, and pleas for him to hand it back.  

But the paper was only held high up above Dave’s still short height, and he heard his brother snort from time to time as he held him away, but kept reading easily.  

“This essay is awfully personal, Dave.”  It was a strange mixture of endeared and of scolding, but it was just the right amount of both to have Dave almost whine as he hopped and attempted to retrieve said essay.  

“What, no, why would they send it back?”  

“Probably to explain to me why my kid brother is going to be abandoning me for an entire week this summer.”  

He stopped hopping at that, but his hand was still reaching up as he guiltily glanced up at the other.  The truth was that he hadn’t actually expected to win anything with his writing, so he hadn’t really seen the point of mentioning it.  

“This summer, what am I saying, in a few months actually.”  

“So, like, I’m going?”  His hopefulness wasn’t truly concealed, but he figured that was an unnecessary measure to take up when his brother had his reasons and wishes listed off through his own traitorous writing right within his hands.  

“Well, I have to say, I wasn’t expecting to ever raise a kid who would be enough of a dork to want to gawk at space during his summer.”  The tone was teasing, but Dave still grimaced as he settled down, trying to juggle his equal emotions of distressed embarrassment as well as his ecstatic eagerness for the news that had fallen upon him in such an unusual way.  

“I’m pretty sure it’s not going to be about gawking at space,” he argues hopelessly, already sulking away, once again picking back up and sipping at his drink and finally leaving his backpack to fall at his feet, at a random spot on the floor, before throwing himself onto his brother’s couch, purposely pressing his wet hair against the fabric of the cushions.    

“Oh, come on, don’t be a bad sport.”  

“I’m not, I’m just appreciating my bubble tea, here, by myself, alone, thank you.”  And that was it, he was done with the attention.  Especially now that his secret submission to a contest he would have never brought up at home was out in the open.  In his brother’s hands nonetheless.  

He still comes to ruffle Dave’s hair regardless, making an almost disgusted sound when he found it wet, seeming to only pick up on the pitter patter of the rain then.  He tells him, with a hushed tone that had Dave’s heart beat at a duller rhythm, “I get why you got those shades now.  You do look like a tiny pilot with those.”  

He tries to look offended, but then he has to completely leave the room in embarrassment when he adds, in a singsong voice.  “Soon you’ll be sailing through the cosmic skies too, Dave!”  

 

\------------------

You had this vague memory of this David guy finally getting on your good side last night.  And throughout breakfast you were almost ready to accept it, well, really, almost!  It was so, so, so short lived though, and you just have to blame it on him.  

It was as if he was making a conscious effort to be pleasant with everyone else, but just not to you…  Or something like that, you’re not quite sure.  But you’re back to wanting to make this experience miserable for him.  Which is really way too hard, because you’re getting such a distinct impression that he is absolutely the person who is most interested in all of this amongst everyone around you.  

Especially right now.  The day was young, and this activity could be fun, maybe, if you had listened long enough to understand just what the assigned task was.  Something about charting stars.  But the volumes of information the lot of you had fished out to do so was almost intimidating to a point that you just wanted to shut your eyes.  You’re not sure you got it, but apparently you’re going to work on an improved and accurate version of what you do now, tonight, when the stars will actually be viewable.  That will be pleasant, all you’ll have to do is stare up at the sky, you like that, you’re used to that, you can handle that, for sure.  But why not just make that version later, you don’t really like the research method quite as much as the hands-on method, after all it wasn’t the improved version for nothing, so why did you have to go through that?  

But as the lot of you struggled over who should be the one with the pencil, and how off this or that element was, your already sworn enemy was once again off to the side.  But he wasn’t getting reprimanded for that lack of cooperation, in fact you were pretty sure the man who had presented to you different tools and different techniques to go about this, probably some scientist with no personal life, or so you’re guessing, was probably venerating the kid by now.  

You could only pick up on bribes of their conversation.  

“Yes, as you’ve guessed, it’s entirely related to wavelength.”

“So…  The biggest factor would be distance, right?”  

You stared straight at the duo, your eyes squinted into slits due to the overbearingness of the sun.  You hated how you didn’t understand the flow of their conversation, and you hated how at ease he seemed discussing the subject.  You hated those shades and why he was so obsessed with keeping them on!  Not the point though…  You listen to a few more retorts, watch the boy nod his head and agree with something the man had said, “So basically, cold stars would be in hues of red, and warm ones in hues of blue?”  

And something very sore pulls at the surface of your mind and you smile sadly as you think of how smug your best friend would feel if you told him that blue, your text color, was for warm and lousy stars, and his color was for the coolest of cool kid stars.  You’d never tell him that, that would be lame as hell.  But your homesickness catches up to you in a different way now, and you miss having someone to talk to at the end of your days, storing up details of your day to tell friends from far away.  It’s not even as if you could talk to them about this week when you got back home, it would clearly be a well-kept secret.

They’re still chattering away, and you’re still pretending to work, but not that much anymore.  Your eyes have settled onto the sky, following every spiral of the meager clouds up ahead, furnishing the azure sky much too poorly and much too simply.  You get hit with loneliness and, in true lonely fashion, you keep it to yourself.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and for any feedback! <3


	3. Unwarranted Friendships

Maybe all you need is a little bit of space.  You feel a bit subdued in your emotions when he’s a bit farther away, not to mention that your thoughts tend to take a kinder approach once there is that settling distance.  Or maybe it’s the light of the day, the way it filters through the large bay windows of the new building you’re in.  The lack of artificial lighting seems to be some sort of balm for your chaotic emotions, and you fully welcome it, breathing with more ease with every softening thought of yours.  The light is soft as well but the sky stays in hues of greys today, you’re not quite sure you’re able to understand how it illuminates without dipping into vibrancy, but it’s suiting your mood very nicely.  

You’d spent your first official day of camp yesterday letting your insides twist and knot and coil with every corrosive thought pertaining to the boy with the shades.  It had been particularly hard because, once again, said shades hadn’t left his eyes until the very end of the day, just as the very first night you had shared a room with him.  You had successfully shot down any chances of making this experience at least slightly enjoyable, but you can give yourself credit that your distaste for him had probably taken the forefront as your mind’s idea of making things ‘bearable’; a sort of survival mode if you will.  But, the day’s activities hadn’t been all that bad, had they?  And by the time you’d gotten to actual star charting, you were so, so, so engaged in deconstructing him with only a handful of gossip, glares, and thoughts, you’d pretty much missed out on any sky gazing.  You think that, maybe, you become a slightly better person when you do take the time to partake in such an activity.  

Then again, you are not so sure about this realization, of how it had occurred to you.  Of how you could look at things with a bit more distance.  It’s probably that…  He isn’t such a bad kid, in fact, he’s probably one of the best kids you’d met.  Very kept to himself, very put together, but he had a surprising energy of engagement.  It was maybe a little too much, always doing the right thing had a way of putting off others, and it did to you as well, especially in the strange way he held himself.  You want to use the word humble, but you somehow know that this is extremely off.  It was as if he was playing a certain role, but taking up the face of another…  Only, he wasn’t exactly sporting a mask, it was those shades, and they bothered you to no end.  They bothered you to such a point, a sort of sickening urge to possess them; that you could not always withhold this opinion, and even in your softer moments, as this one, you still didn’t offer much resistance to the yearning to make him suffer.  

He was the perfect volunteer, the selfless hero of adventure novels.  Only, something was different about that when applied in the real world.  There was this blinded and desperate impulse to do what’s right in fictional characters, and then there were people who lived in your world and who were raised on a culture teaching that those who acted in such a way were equals to the idealized image of heroes.  So what, this kid liked to play the hero?  Maybe he liked giving the best of himself, a voice called out to you from within, but that claim pissed you off as well.  Something that grated at your nerves, something that screeched that it was a self-centered thing to do and that spending that much time on oneself was desolating and isolating and selfish, selfish, selfish.  But even as you form your thoughts you think of the runt of your group, Luke you think, and how David hadn’t even needed to bat his eyelashes once before deciding to console him.  Bettering oneself might secure the ability to help others?  You don’t know, you don’t care, but coincidentally enough, as you reflect on this, watch blondie volunteer himself as the first to test out the activity, as always, you also hear the whispers and the sharpness you’d induced to the other boys’ tongues, specifically the one who’d been helped out by mister righteous himself.  This all helps to hit you with a healthy dose of reality check.  Even if David was in fact spreading good, he certainly was not getting it served back to him.  

You start scratching your arm with an unconscious sort of anxiety.  You’re not thinking that you usually give a hard time to people who already do hand out hard times.  You try not to think about how it turns out that this person, the object of your dislike, doesn’t quite spread hard times at all.  You try to remember how shattered you’d been those last few seconds of the auction.  And that helps it all, a tiny bit.  

“Why does he even always go first?” 

“It’s not even like he’s good at any of this sporty stuff.”  

You cock your head, half listening to the gang and half observing David’s movements.  Alright, well, it was true that maybe he wasn’t cut out for a life of athleticism.  You’ll agree that he blew everyone out of the water in any theoretical classes so far, or whenever a question was even launched your way.  You were most impressed, you think, when he would raise his hand without knowing the answer yet, and would instead reason it out loud, naturally.  And no one followed, but if the adults’ judgment is any indicator, he was shining quite brightly.  But he also always raised his hand for simulations and any sort of physical shit, and it really didn’t suit him all that well.  Not that he did poorly, but there was a gawky sort of quality to his movements that you’d never really picked up on in anyone in your age group yet.  Like, maybe if he blinked a bit too quickly he might fall over himself.  The image filled you with an odd sort of fondness, so instead you agreed mentally that he did always ask to go again after the first rotation, and he always did better, and that was at least something?  

You didn’t voice any support though, you were the one who initiated his social nightmare, and you were still cheering that on, really, you swear!   And so you try to supply something mean to fuel the whispers, it’s not actually mean though.  You don’t think you even manage to make it come out as sharp or as shrill as the least of your insults could come out to be, it’s just vague and disinterested as you keep your eyes on him.  “Yeah, his legs are so skinny.”  

It’s not really mean, not really, no, because it’s just part of your current thought process.  It takes you a few seconds to realize he generally wore long pants, even his pajama bottoms matched that up, and that proper clothing for this section of camp was shirts and shorts and that, suddenly, or for the past twenty minutes and you just hadn’t really gotten the update, his limbs seemed excruciatingly long.  And gosh, you just don’t understand, what could have happened to his legs?  It’s like he hadn’t had time to ever develop muscles in them, maybe that’s why he did only mediocre on the athletic side of things?   Wasn’t even as if you could blame it on a growth spurt, he wasn’t tall by any means, but, shit…  You should concentrate, this is all much too unrelated and with too big a portion of curiosity and not enough of an edge of nastiness.  

Doesn’t matter, you’ve already put out the necessary motions for others to fill in the blanks.  And that Luke guy then refers to his legs as ‘chicken legs’, and you’d laugh really, but you just don’t see how that would entail anything but him having generous thighs to match his scrawny calves, and that obviously isn’t happening any time soon.  You kind of half wish he was back in his normal clothes.  He wore them as if they were unique and personalized and you secretly wondered if they were.  And you reprimand yourself sadly because you’ve picked up too much on him and on his identity, and this is your third day in his proximity.  

The conversation is in movement now, and no one answers when the woman watching over your lot asks for a second volunteer to get started on whatever the fuck blondie over there was even trying to accomplish.  You disregard both of those facts and your eyes now land on Luke instead, a good head shorter than you and also everyone else you suppose.  

“Hey what did he show you on his phone or whatever that first night anyway?”  You don’t care about interrupting the flow of things, but predictably that specific flow cuts off straight away and you have the leading attention.  You think it has to do with how brutally your words had fallen.  This must be the first time they see you as rude to anyone who wasn’t an adult or had ‘chicken legs’.  You hadn’t meant for it to ring in that way, but the bite of envy for how he’d mattered in an instant to someone so…  So puzzling!  Was entirely frustrating with how he hadn’t developed a friendship with the bespectacled boy, or, or you don’t know!  Why was he still following your lead after David had been so nice to him?  

“Oh, haha, I dunno?”  He laughs and the sound is awkward and completely irritating, it matches very nicely with the way he starts fidgeting and looking away, his face somehow coloring instantly.  It dawns to you that it might be embarrassing for him to have you refreshing the group of the memory of him crying for his parents so much earlier on.  You’re sure your gaze is piercing right through him though, you often get comments on how destabilizing your stare is, it’s sort of surprising because you don’t put much energy into it, but you are neither willing to put energy into softening it in any way.  He ends up replying, because you don’t look away, you guess.  It’s just as dumb and as half-witted.  “Some weird song?  I don’t really remember…”  

You can see him biting his cheek and you’re guessing that he is also biting back a comment in your comrade’s defense.  An actual comment alluding to how he is sort of pretty much a good guy.  But you let that detail pass, because you know you are doing the exact same.  Also, because you’d love to not wonder about what qualifies as a weird song and just how his musical taste corresponded to the rest of his image.  You were hoping to god you weren’t…  You were really, really, intensely hoping you didn’t want to befriend the boy with the shades, because those were rightfully yours and he betrayed you, and that is no base for a friendship, like, ever!  It was the perfect base to utterly destroy and shatter his person until he threw his shades down in a last effort of sorrow before running back to his mother to cry.  The shades would then be yours to collect and to pack up happily with a heartfelt letter and a laughable doodle all for your very best friend; come on you did not need to add another friend to your roster, you were fine as it was.  You were going to be even better once you could mend some of the hits you’d given Dave’s ego over the years, all you needed were those shades.  

But that small sense of pride and of affection for the dream gift eludes you, because you can’t help but to think of how different blondie’s face would look without the large eyewear…  Imagine him crying to his mother about his bad experience at camp, despite how earnest he had been in his efforts to perform, and you imagine his home, his loving parents, how much they must care for their son, maybe a younger sister, you don’t know.  But your throat gets tighter, you tell yourself it’s because you’re getting better at this stuff, and you’re now quicker at remembering that the people you prey on are in fact, just that, people, and they have other people in their life supporting and caring for them.  And you don’t just hurt one person and blah, blah, blah— However, you know what’s truly upsetting your stomach.  It’s simply the image of the loving family scenario, the completed, full, and warm family that you do not possess yourself.  Your eyes are unfocused as you watch David trot back from the end of the course, you’re still not sure you get what it was about exactly, but even if this time what had been asked of you was more influenced by acrobatics rather than raw force he had still stumbled.  You blink once, tiredly, as you stare up at the coach, or counselor, you don’t really know, even acclaimed physicists seemed to be in the same uniform as your least favorite young adults who liked to turn your stay into what must realistically be hell.  You don’t hear or read the words off her lips, so it’s no surprise that you keep your stare dead until someone finally steps up to steal the thunder from the last not so outstanding performance of your group.  

No matter, you’re so busy letting your mind plummet once again, acknowledging that not only did this still strange and puzzling boy have your shades, your prize, he probably also had ease with every part of his life that you did not have yourself.  It serves as cold reminder of your homesickness.  There were just some extra thorns on this topic this time because, much to your displeasure, you were remembering the home that you missed as the painfully plain and empty home that it truly was.  You were happy no one had access to your thoughts, of course you knew you loved your father, you loved your house, you loved your things and you knew you were loved back by your parent, but the singular of the term taunted you nonetheless.  You decided to line yourself to go next into the still indistinguishable obstacle race or whatever science name they wanted to pin on it, and when you walked up to the starting line, you simply turned to the woman, the advisor you’ll say, and announced, clearly and bluntly; you are too sick to participate.  In fact, you are too sick to even stand up.  

And in victory you find yourself slouched onto the gymnasium’s bleachers, eyes riveted towards the large windows.  It’s just a shame that they seemed to refocus constantly on a pair of skinny legs instead.  You spent the rest of the hour, inactive, unhappy, and squirming wordlessly, thinking to yourself that, no, oh no, no, no, no, you did not want to be his friend.  

Even so, just an hour following that precise one, you were still ignoring the windowed pane adjacent your cafeteria seat, and instead bore your gaze into his platter of food.  He was sitting with the team, yet he still managed to abstain himself from participating in any shape of communication or conversation.  That was fine, you were learning plenty just by his annoying presence alone.  If you are about to break down and attempt to befriend this kid, maybe it’s best there are no words thrown into the mix, that might make the pressure to cave into temptation just that much harder…  Or maybe it would be better, maybe he was one of those pretty people who opened their mouths, and then the illusion was popped like a nice pink soapy bubble.  Only, you can’t convince yourself of that, because the little he speaks around kids his age, and the loads he speaks to answer grownups; that’s all enough evidence to demonstrate that your intrigue is only built up by every which trait of his.  And right now, the trait in question, is none other but his eating habits.

You’ve been watching him scoop up the vegetables of his plate into his slices of bread for much too long now.  You are spending way too much energy, to the point where there are literally only two bites taken out of your own chicken sandwich.  Has he not been eating meat?  Why had you not picked up on this earlier!  Why would he ask to hold the chicken of his chicken sandwich, that is completely counterproductive, not to mention completely ridiculous, really.  You also don’t like the cup of water that sits next to his juice box, alright, sure, that in itself isn’t that much of a problem, you understand that he might be thirsty after the juice alone, and that he was too respectful to ask for more than the assigned quota of juice…  But, why did he have to ask for a straw for his cup of water, no, you didn’t like it one bit, who drank water with a straw?

Before you knew it, you were addressing him, and it was easy enough too because, regardless of the lunch period being already half over, he was still busy rearranging his meal.  But, no, it wasn’t really all that easy, because he just didn’t quite understand that you, bully extraordinaire probably, would be calling out to him and not some other guy at the table.  You say, with a habit of deadpanned aptitudes, “I don’t get it.”  And all heads snap to you, all but one, and you are starting to seriously get fed up with his tendencies to be outside of the norm.  There was nothing more irritating than someone forcing him or herself to push against the currents and to be ‘original’.  The need to stand out was about the least original trait you could think of.  

A voice was still defending him within you though, and you observed him, with ever darkening features, as he inclined his face towards his concoction of a veggie sandwich, seeming to calculate the spread of vegetables.  You were two fingers away from giving him a sermon; dude, you aren’t any healthier than the rest of us with your idolization of the cafeteria’s frozen vegetables, you’re just the same.  But that would be uncalled for, and nothing in his attitude is calling forth the idea of him thinking of himself as superior.  You wonder, only briefly, if you’re the one who sees him as superior to you, and if you’re the one who feels threatened by such a thing.  You put that aside, and you let yourself point him out with your words, because even if everyone’s eyes have now followed your directive gaze, his are still hidden behind too pretty shades and an insistence to improvise his lunch.  

“Doesn’t the saying go, you are what you eat?  I don’t get it, how is your abstinence from chicken giving you chicken legs?”  You make sure to bat your eyelashes nicely and to delicately set your chin down on your fist, a true air of interest contrasting the dull ring of your voice.  Truth be told, you’re asking yourself different questions, you’re wondering if his diet is balanced enough and if the scrawniness of his limbs was indicator of a problem there.  You’re not worrying about him, that would be retarded, you want to crush him and pick the golden framed shades right off the tip of his nose, that’s all.

What he hears though are only the words you’ve spoken.  And the way he pulls his eyes away from his food and towards you, and the way he puts the sandwich down, all in utmost slowness, has you swallowing and pulling back some of the hypocritical pleasantness of your expression.  For a few instants his eyebrows pull downwards, and for an even shorter instant your vision goes a bit funny, and….  With a feeling similar to when you have a word just at the tip of your tongue that you can’t remember, or when you’ve suddenly lost the last step of your thought process, something like missing the last step of a staircase as well, your mind is left overworking itself to find where you’d seen that exact expression before.  It doesn’t last long, and you are back in your right mind to see the words, chicken legs, spoken soundlessly from his lips.  You’re almost inclined to redden in embarrassment, but you are supported by buzzing laughter, courtesy of your comrades.  You still can’t shake that the expression he’s wearing might be one you’ve imagined in the past…

“Don’t tell me you’re like, vegetarian because it’s stylish?  That’s really lame.”  Your laughter is spot-on, scornful, and the perfect lead for others’ resounding laughter as well.  He probably didn’t have to justify himself to you, and you were well aware of that!  But you don’t either feel the need to justify your accusation, it just fit his image so well, the little character he had built up.  You didn’t want to say it, but maybe you were a little tired of just having his image presented to you, maybe you wanted and needed his thoughts as well.  However, that was definitely not a normal thing to need, and certainly not something you yourself needed.  

“Didn’t say I was vegetarian.”  And that’s it, that’s all he gives, and it’s not bringing any of his thoughts out, it’s not fleshing out his image to be a true person, and how it pisses you off.  Even though you didn’t want to know him as a person, you already knew he was a major asshole, that’s all you needed, you have to tell yourself that that’s all you need.  But for now you’re discovering that directly addressing him might not be the best tactic in the world.  That it might be, in fact, completely deconstructing what you were trying to achieve with your bouts of social manipulation.  

You’re ready to back out, but then another kid takes the forefront, and you guess you can handle that, you guess that perhaps strictly watching will facilitate this whole joke of an exchange.   

“Hey, that’s right.  You don’t take bacon at breakfast either, you really are!”  

You cross your arms and bring up your eyebrows quickly and smugly, as if the convenient evidence of a bacon free breakfast was definitely enough to put him in a checkmate position.  

He answers with, “If you never see a man entering a church, does that make him an atheist?”  

Your face falls, and most people at the table throw themselves to give in their two cents, mostly revolving around how absurd and stupid David’s question had been.  You don’t join in, and the voice that won’t leave you alone speaks just the slightest bit louder, chanting; _you want to be his friend, you are so screwed_.  

 

\------------------

Honestly, you are starting to believe that your father is feeling progressively worse about this whole ordeal.  After all, he does have to see you moping around the house a whole lot more often than in any other past circumstances.  You would say it’s going to be a long summer for your father, seeing as he’s been added this extra month of your constant presence, but you also wouldn’t say it because it’ll in fact be interrupted by a week of your absence.  You mean, it shouldn’t be all that bad, he leaves for work a solid eight hours a day, but when he comes home at night, you aren’t quite that confined to your room.  

Granted, you don’t go online during the day, you’d hate to have to explain to your friends just why you are no longer attending school.  But at the same time, you kind of hate having to explain yourself in the more standard time frames as well.  On the one hand, it’s slightly appreciated to have such attentive and sensitive friends, on the other hand however, just when had they become so obtusely observant?  You’re not even that sure Rose is onto you, or if that’s her regular inquisitive nature shining through.  But you can physically feel Jade sniffing out the guilt from your text, and then there’s Dave— do you even want to get started on that?  You know him to have two distinct moods; one where your words will go ignored for dozens of minutes at a time in the conversation, as he satisfies his need to write out as much as possible (only to have him finally read your words and bring back an already extinguished topic later), and then there is one mood you have been familiarizing yourself with way too much as of late.  Your every single sentence suddenly possesses the weight of the world, and any question of his you answer suddenly brings forth handfuls of much more acute questions.  

Had you not been so focused on keeping information confidential, you might have noticed that his attitude was matching yours quite blissfully well.  In fact, had you asked a single question in the same fashion he had, he would have probably screamed out his guilt and secrets in mountains and heaps of red.  You are too busy to be questioning Dave’s choices of lifestyle though, and instead you are left worrying yourself sick about which excuse will make it easier to shake off his metaphorical clinging.  

And that would become easier if you did  have an idea of where exactly you were going and just when; you have to know the truth if you want to truly hide it.  But if you can get it your way, you won’t be going anywhere at all.  So you’re keeping yourself from throwing an excuse out into the world just yet.  Then it’ll be just a few weeks of weird interactions and strategic avoidance, and then it’ll be smooth sailing for the rest of the summer.  For a few seconds, you are caught up in the implications of smooth sailing, your father hasn’t spoken in a few minutes now, eyes not quite fixated on any specific spot of the wall, comfortably reclined in the sofa, as you stay awkwardly seated next to the unsurprisingly inactive fireplace.  You’ve been spending a lot of time with him downstairs now, but you’ve found out that this time easily becomes uncomfortable and tense.  You are not sure what you’d rather meditate on…  The reality that, if you were going to get it your way, you could just be with your friends at ease, but not really, can you?  You let your mind wander a bit, what if you could escape to one of your friends’ houses, what if instead of crappy online gaming, you could meet with one of your friends, and spend a night playing old and beloved game titles, and fetch snacks from the kitchen together, and whisper secrets into the night when it’s time for bed.  You love your friends, you do, but from time to time you are taken with a feeling of melancholy, wanting them to be fleshed out, next to you, part of your immediate physical life.  Your second option is to wonder about just how deeply you’ve disappointed your father.  You’re not quite sure it’s the way to go either.

Not that he’s done especially a lot of yelling, or has given you stern sighs of disappointment, it’s nothing like that…  But it feels as if something has shifted in your relationship, and that there is nothing you can do about it, and the change is in no way invited or appreciated.  The taste of regret is not exactly a victorious one, you’re finding out.  Well, regardless, you’re still trying to worm your way out of the consequences.  To be honest, focusing your efforts on pulling yourself out of trouble really does you loads better than staying with your thoughts.  You’re not a person who is easily saddened, you really aren’t!  Maybe if you remind yourself of this frequently enough, it can stay this way for a very long time.  

So you tell him, for the tenth time this week, “I really don’t think I’d do well in a city, Dad.”  Easy argument that trumps a lot of the pamphlets he’s been bringing you home.  It’s a shame, you guess, that he’s trying so hard to find the best options for you, and you are only doing your best to make sure there are no available options for yourself.  The plea is in fact rooted of something genuine though, that nauseating sort of wave that hits you when you think of flying to New York to see Rose or flying to Houston to see Dave.  You’re guessing it’s probably the idea of a city, because the idea of adventuring with Jade sounds great, and driving away from the big apple to Rose’s fairylike life does too.  But entering Houston, sets your nerves on fire.  You don’t have anyone to confess to though, because you sure as hell aren’t just going to up and invite yourself like that…  But it’s a convenient thought for this particular topic.  

He gives you what you’ve dubbed to be ‘the’ look.  The look that kills.  The look that can replace easy jabs like; you’re lucky I’m looking into things that are only sending you away for a week.  It’s his, _I am so merciful and great_ look, and you are actually kind of getting bored of it.  You still remind yourself, often enough, not to pour too much oil on the fire, to at least try not to screw this up further than you’ve managed to.  

“Wouldn’t it be nicer to keep me at home?” You try swiftly, in order to cover up whatever generic line was about to accompany the look.  

As he flips the page of his book, book that he had been ignoring for at least twelve minutes now, forgotten on his lap, you understand all by yourself that he too is tired of the argument.  But, having the upper hand that you do not, he is simply starting to shrug all these things off.  

“It would be nicer, John, if you did not try to guilt me for finding the best suited way to help you with your social problems.”

“You mean social dominance,” you correct discreetly, but not quite discreetly enough.  

“I don’t see how a learning experience could be so inconvenient to your wellbeing?”  Starting now, you could probably time how many more seconds it’ll take for your father to snap, you should back down, you should most definitely back down now.  

“I don’t have to go to a science camp to learn about science, I can do the exact same up in my room!”  Somehow, you aren’t backing down.  

“And feel superior when you meet up with kids your age once more?”  

His jaw is firmly set, you can tell that he will be regretting his words an hour from now or so, but for the moment, you are engaged in this argument, and so instead of letting it slide, melancholy catches up with you in a very halting way.  Who were you interacting with up in your room?  Your closest friends, kids your age who you appreciated and cared for.  But you didn’t quite do a good job of that, not enough for any of them to even ever considering the possibility of meeting you face to face one day.  What if you truly were unpleasant?  What if you actually did have a harder time making friends, what if this would be good for you, because at the end of the day; it’s a lot easier for a group of friends spread out across the country to drop you. 

And that melancholy and its aura might just have sped up that whole regret process, because the next thing that is happening is actually your father backing out of the idea of camp.  For some unfathomable reason however, as he gets up and seats himself next to you, ready to hold you in a tight apologetic embrace, you blurt out that you’d like to go to the very last camp he’d proposed, only yesterday.

Space is ok, but you hadn’t really planned for space camp to be a thing in your life, ever.  

 

 

\------------------

Dave’s essay ended up held up to the fridge with a silly astronaut magnet his brother had specifically gone out to buy, despite having already ordered a goofier version online; something about time restrictions and not wanting the piece of paper anywhere other than on display, especially as he waited for the younger boy to leave the nest for the very first time.  The direct result of this, he wasn’t so sure of, but he’d caught Dave on the phone, with one of the friends he’d made off the internet, complaining and whining loudly about guardians and their antagonizing purchases of magnets.  The inner workings of this conversation might have eluded the eldest Strider, but he was in no way ready to put the damned thing down from its spot of glory.  

The subject of the teen’s departure was an untouched one, and the only real information or insight his guardian could pull out of their home life was that sole sheet of paper.  He wondered if, perhaps, the reason it was as such was because the boy knew he couldn’t very well add anything further to offer his personal thoughts on the matter.  And so, taking up his role of parent very seriously, he sought out any details in between the lines of the text.  It soon became clear that this could only lead him to hypothetical answers, and eventually he had to admit that he quite liked having Dave’s accomplishment so plainly in sight…  And maybe it was very much like a dissonance amidst the chaos and the sort of parade and fanfare that their living arrangement often held together, but he knew how to appreciate that small treasure.  He tells himself that, all and all, he didn’t have to do very much to motivate his younger brother to reserve dreams to his name and to question himself seriously over important questions and themes.  It was a nice dose of relief, and briefly, he’d wondered if perhaps he had axed too much on comfort, but the question always rung useless when he could see their established happiness.  

That said, he was interested.  He wanted to know more, about all of this, this sort of project, this endeavor, this passion, and he wanted to do it before he let Dave go out by himself.  He would certainly not voice this concern, but the truth was that he had ended up with an easy kid to look after, and when he headed home every night, he could be very and absolutely sure that Dave would be around.  And that was nice, because the sight of him was proof enough that nothing too drastic had happened, no catastrophe on the horizon.  There would be no indicator of that clarity if the kid was far away, by himself.  It’s only for a week, just a week, only a week of slight worry and a bagful of new experiences for his younger charge.  It was worth it.  But he was very sure he’d have more confidence in those words were the younger Strider in fact willing to open up and to speak a few words about this, and not only have his written words staring up at him.  

And so he did not only scrutinize the winning essay every time he entered the kitchen, but he also put much energy forward in trying to trick Dave into speaking.  The thing was that he’d spent years playing tricks on the teen, and if it had been a funny and bonding activity when he had still been much more of a child, now he had in fact grown wary and quite good at dodging such traps.  Every worded attempt to pull out information was met with quite an affirmative rebuttal and he was undoubtedly knocked back to square one.  Silent worry for his brother.  

So when he enters Dave’s room, two weeks before his departure, he is understandably on edge, knowing that the younger boy had even started sorting out things for his voyage, carefully selecting items.  The mere fact that he’d decided to slip into his room, unannounced and without a reason, is a shift strong enough surely to alert the boy.  And he in fact does see Dave’s posture go very straight and very tense as he takes a seat on the unmade bed, crossing his arms as he glared in concentration.  This was no time for subtlety or too elaborate games to get some answers.  Maybe if he provoked an emotion, a sort of questioning, things would become unlocked, the gateways would open and the floods of chatter could be released.  

“Make it quick.”  Dave sadly beats him to the start, and his brother takes the words as some sort of good omen, because this time, he’s not the only one on edge.  Maybe he should have thought of this beforehand, attempt to get information while in the boy’s bedroom, because he quite often did have this reaction to his older brother being in his room; tense and nervous.  He makes a slight note, as he always does when they did have exchanges in that particular room, to maybe look around for any badly guarded secrets that might make Dave quite that uneasy.  The note is never really serious because he trusts Dave.  

“You’re not even going to turn to face me to talk, that’s cute.”  His expression imperceptibly slips closer to a grimace when Dave shrugs, his fingers still moving deftly over his computer’s keyboard.  The older Strider was of course no stranger to the World Wide Web, but he was always a bit taken aback when he could see the kid’s typing speed.  “Hey, so you know in that one movie that you liked…”

“That really narrows it down,” he cuts off easily.

For a moment it’s impossible not to think that Dave had somehow noticed his recent thirst to have him answer questions he would really rather not.  He seemed ready to dodge and block questions and snarl at any way the conversation would twist to.  But that’s exactly what reinforced the thought that this was extremely important, it wasn’t an attitude often seen in Dave, and wasn’t exactly a good sign.  

“You know, there was this one character who wanted to become a pilot…”

“Yeah, can we not try to have this conversation again.”  

Suddenly, the matter was urgent, had to be discussed now, because the push of Dave was greater than the pull to, and so he felt sped up with a new sort of energy, one that absolutely required for him to get his way and immediately so.  

“But then he couldn’t, or something.  I’m not sure your taste in movie is weird.”  There is no jab back in reply, still only a cold shoulder.  “Do you want me to get your eyes checked, I’m pretty sure you need to like have this stellar vision for this shit.”  

He doesn’t know what he did right or wrong, but Dave turns around, eyes wide and showing disbelief behind the famed shades.  

“Do I look four-eyed?  I think it’s fine, Bro, let it be.”  

“Well, you don’t really have the most resilient eyes, do you?”  

Now he knows, wrong thing to say.  The flash of emotion on Dave’s face easily matched up the first day he’d realized for himself that the most dominant feature of his face was maybe not so normal.  So far in life, he doesn’t think he’s seen anything worse than a child thinking everything was alright, and having someone, one day, tell him that it isn’t.  And he suddenly feels not so great about this particular approach, and tries to widen his offer.  

“I’m pretty sure I could get some contacts you could make, you know, check for all this requirement shit for you.”  

Dave answers surprisingly quickly, and surprisingly well.  “I think contacts would be good, but I don’t want to hear anything about requirements.”  He gives his brother one hard look before going back to typing, at a slightly slower pace.  “You know, when you hear about those exceptional stories of people succeeding at things they shouldn’t have in the first place, those people never thought they could be held back or stopped by the detail that had with other people.  And that’s only easier if I never find out I wasn’t supposed to succeed in the first place.”  

He stays silent for a few moments, not wanting to add anything to the words, not wanting to argue and debate it, and decides, with quite some ease; that he could perhaps wait a bit longer for his younger brother to open up about these things.  

“I’m proud of you, kid.”  

“Yeah, please get out of my room.”  

So he only did hours later, after having joked and laughed and watched things online with Dave, a bit more relaxed with the idea of the boy leaving.  

 

 

\------------------

“Hey, wait up!”  

Reaching out now is completely an on impulse thing.  You most certainly had not put this down in your plan.  And even as you had continued to meditate questions that easily made your headache a little bit sharper and a little more poignant all throughout lunch time, you had not believed you would have gone and chased the cause of a large portion of that migraine.  

David doesn’t stop though, not even when you use his name to stop him.  No matter, you only catch up to him, setting your now foodless trey next to his as he occupies himself with sorting out the dishes and recyclable items.  You had ended up gobbling your food down when you sensed his soon to be finished lunch, in an attempt to corner him now.  He had a swift way of eating, even when he’d taken so long to get started, and so this was perfect, no one around to bother this question you had to ask him.  

It had bloomed out of nowhere, out of the same vision you’d had of him earlier, imagining him in a perfect family scenario…  Maybe, the asshole wasn’t him?  Maybe it was one of his parents who had purchased the shades as a gift, maybe that would make this bearable?  Maybe that would enable you to befriend him, because in that case he wouldn’t have stolen anything away from your already best friend.  He would just be this guy with a bunch of qualities.  

So you shoot straight for that, “Hey about those shades—”

What you hadn’t expected was the shield he put up in no time.  His head snapping to face you, and a face drawn and etched with anger you would have never guessed there.  “Do you always pay this much attention to things you hate?”  

You laugh, with an awkward ring, but you can’t really keep that up; not when his expression doesn’t shift in the slightest bit.  

“Excuse me?”  

“You don’t even like Ben Stiller, I don’t know why you absolutely had to recognize them.  And you don’t even like me, so please give me some space.”  

You remembered the expression he’d worn when you’d dismissed ever seeing one of the actor’s movies.  And you realize, that might just have been the second most expressive thing that had come out of him, and this was the first.  

“Who said I didn’t like you?”  It wasn’t very convincing.  But his platter was empty now, and he was already retreating from the deposit area.  

“Honestly, it makes no difference to me.  Just leave me alone.”  

You’re left gaping, and alone with your own dishes to sort out, but mostly with the only just blossomed hope to befriend him utterly crumpled.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading <3 <3 <3


	4. Moonlit Truth

There were moments in the day when your thoughts catalyzed an impressive list of elements and reminders of everything currently working against you.  A barely disguised homesickness, an inability to uplift your perspective from being scornful, the absence of your usual online pals, a growing anxiety to face everyday school once more, and of course....  The icy and unreachable shaded boy who you did not, yet did, want to befriend.  Only thinking of one of these easily snapped your resistance in half and had the entire package deal landing on your always alined shoulders.  In moments like those, it became slightly trickier to maintain your exemplary posture or to keep your eyes from noticeably stinging.  You found that digging your nails into the palms of your hands was the easiest and quickest way to remedy the situation, and by Wednesday night the reddened crescent marks in your hands were clearly established.  

Yet, sometimes, your thoughts completed the opposite feat.  And an idea or a thought could send your psyche into a positive nostalgia in which you simply felt invincible and unharmed.  The way clouds shifted overhead, or the rustle of the leaves that could be overheard when the lot of you had to switch buildings, or a familiar squeak of a pair of sneakers on a linoleum flooring.  Any of these things and many more could soothe your pressing need to worry.  You would have thought that tonight, the continuation of the longest day of the week according to the schedule, would be painful and would drag your emotional state to something belonging of the first category, the one that miraculously had you slump your shoulders.  And somehow, it didn’t.  Maybe it was the knowledge that, the night after tomorrow’s, would be your last night sleeping away from home, and it would be hours away from your flight back home.  

Or maybe it was that it had rained during supper time and that, instead of preparing yourselves to sleep like you had on previous nights, everyone was still full of life and racing along, following the distinct fire of the torch the instructor ahead carried.  It was how the silhouettes of the imposing trees of the forest you were heading towards were cut out just so against the immense night sky.  And maybe it was the essence of that forest, seeming almost enchanted when you recalled the only desert like areas you had crossed on the cab ride here.  It was the warmth of the night, how your state of dress, and everyone else’s was in synch to summer, but the world around you seemed to be too dark to be part of that season.  It was the crackling of the insignificant fire that led you from many meters ahead already, and it was the sensation of the wet soil below your feet.  

Simply put, you were happy.  And the contrast of the many hours you spent angry and inwardly fuming over circumstances out of your control is so strong that your smile is literally unmovable.  This sensation of well-being however doesn’t work any wonders on your so far almost entirely absent attentiveness to orders and directions.   By the time you realize that there’s a reason the flock has stopped and that the crackling of the torch is now much closer and that there are words being spoken and that you are in fact part of the audience; well, it’s too late to quite grasp what the instructions entailed.  The employment of ‘teams of two’ does not escape you however, and your eyes land, without much effort and maybe just as if you’d kept note of his location at all times, on the one and only mysterious David what’s his face.  And you mean what’s his face literally, as those sunglasses still haven’t budged.  Your focus does not stray for the rest of the speech that is given to your group; all things considered, trying to even catch one clue on what your mission was could have been extremely advantageous, but you were going to make blondie team up with you if it it was the last thing that you tried.  

So instead of even understanding that there was a race of some sorts involved, you notice instead that David was up ahead, seeming to have walked at the same pace as the counselor in charge, and holding up a cardboard box.  If your eyes didn’t deceive you, he seemed mostly bothered by the weight.  Yet he had volunteered to help out, you don’t need any more evidence to deduce that much.  But his grip on the box kept on shifting, and you could almost foretell its eminent downfall.  You were ready to leap over to him and to give him a hand, you were ready, as soon as there would be a significant pause in the adult’s speech, you’d know it was time to pounce.  In the moments leading up to this specific pause, you could still have caught some bribes of information, or you could have at least reasoned that; since David already had some hefty reasons to turn you down, knowing what was at skate before you dove in to ask him, and let’s not forget that you’d be the only one without this knowledge, would be a smart approach.  Instead, you keep your eyes trained on his gawky movement, all of the gauche ways his hands twist to keep a grip on the box.  

Your good mood really did no favors for your attentiveness.  It just so happens that you do miss the cue to leap ahead and save the poor blonde with the skinny legs from the not terribly imposing cardboard box.  The instructions have stopped, and you only understand so because someone’s already tapped your target’s shoulder.  You hadn’t expected that.  You’d killed his chance to popularity, no?  He should be the last one picked for teams, as it always was with those who faced your wrath of sorts.  Maybe, maybe if you had listened you would have realized that this was also a race.  And that the expert of all things was incontestably the unpopular kid.  You were too busy for that, it just so happened that that was your teammate someone was trying to steal away from you.   

Impulsively you call out, “Dave!”  

Because he automatically looks your way when you do call out that name, and because, despite the surrounding darkness, you understand that his eyes lock with yours from behind their shield, you almost never understand your mistake.  

“We’re teaming up,” you finish up with considerably less volume and confidence.  

He was only a few steps away really, but the moment he decides to cross it, effectively ignoring the other boy who had gotten to him first, the distance feels heavy and important instead of marginal.  You really do try to swerve away from the thought of the Dave you do have in your life.  Because that falls into the topic of online pals which also falls into the category of details that have you digging your nails into your skin to avoid tears.  But current events aren’t really pushing for the same outcome as you are, and everything in the way he had responded to the name is pulling you deeper into your persistent wish to concretize the only friendships that count to you.  

You are still deep in thought when David gets to you; imaging yourself in your computer chair at home, a familiar friend’s writing lighting up your screen, your father only a few rooms away, your own bed nearby, imagining the calm and ease that come from being by yourself, talking to the people who mattered.  

You manage to see him inhale, to also picture how words are forming on his lips, and you cut him off with the only backup plan that you have; you sweep the box out of his spastic looking arms.  And you really do mean sweep, the weightlessness is enough to erase how you had overstepped his words so that you wouldn’t have to reason out loud why you absolutely had to blurt out your best friend’s name in a time like this.  You end up balancing the box in only one arm, your other hand resting on your hip.  He clearly doesn’t miss the odd look you give him.  Why had he been scrabbling to hold this up?  

“Well, if you want to hold it up so badly, why don’t you go ahead and distribute them?”  

He crosses his arms, but you get a hunch that it might just be a method to keep himself from fidgeting to the point where he’ll fall over.  Fortunately, it finally hits you that asking him as a teammate when you’ve utterly ignored the briefing you’d received moments earlier was not the wisest of decisions.  You do your absolute best not to let on that you have no idea what ‘distribute them’ might refer to, but to be fair you’re not so sure he bought into it.  

You walk up next to him and bump him with your shoulder, deciding to act friendly, even though his arms just seem to draw closer to himself as you do.  You clear your throat and overlook the light chatter of teams forming and the counselor’s answers to various inquiries (you should probably get closer to that and listen up), and standing up as straight as you can next to this enigmatic boy, you speak up.  

“Everyone come pick up one of these, because I’m not handing them out.”  

You don’t let your confidence waver when David adds, “One per team.”  

But you do flash him a quick and easy smile; finishing each other’s sentences, already the perfect team!  It’s easy to understand that the feeling your smile is conveying is not exactly reciprocated.  His arms haven’t uncrossed and now you can better see how his fingers are clenched around his arms, just above his elbows.  You can almost make out the glare he’s sending off to the ground from your position next to him and you try to avoid the fact that he mastered the art of looking down without letting anyone else know about it because you’re not so sure what feeling it gives you.  

By the time the box is nearly emptied, aside the object you’d be picking out for your own team, you finally remember that finding out what you were distributing could be an important pointer to your current activity.  You do have to frown when the counselor in charge takes the box away and hands you over the last electric lantern.  It was the sort that your father would bring with you on camping trips when you had still been younger, but because you barely remember those you will deny any history of camping in your life.  The lantern is familiar though, and so you keep it to yourself and away from David.  You aren’t homesick.  You’re just pretty content to have this lantern with you.  

When the counselor tells the pair of you, “Good choice of partners, this will be an interesting team!”  You try to ignore the possible meanings of the comment.  It’s challenging, and you end up concentrating on the difference between you, and this other boy.  Nothing positive ends up in the section dedicated to your own person.  

He does hand out a sheet to David and your paranoia completely spikes.  What kind of secret message was he sending out to him, was it something alluding to you as some horrible person he shouldn’t be spending any time alone with?  

“Why do you get that?”  You ask accusingly once the man had left your vicinity.  

“Because you’re clutching the lantern like some maniac.”  Matter-of-factly, of course.  What about some insight for a change?  But you quickly retract that wish, his insight did include the impossibility of the two of you becoming friends after all.  

You eventually realize that a sheet is being handed out to every team and once again regret your earlier inattentiveness.  You were distracted, there was nothing you could reproach yourself.  If that guy had only just held the box like some normal person, not as if there was some grotesque creature that could break out of it at any moment, when all it contained were some typical camping lanterns, then and only then could you have successfully listened up.  

“Did you catch everything earlier?”  

His voice brings you a similar feeling to having someone put a hand on your shoulder.  His intentions had been hostile enough when addressing you in the past that you hadn’t picked up on this yet; on the sort of sphere that he could create and isolate you in when he was focusing on you.  Or maybe, maybe that’s your doing.  But there is no explanation that could logically back that up in your mind, and the efforts you’d have to put in to find one has your fingers curling towards your palms.  

“Duh.  Come on, let’s go.”  Despite that bubble of mock-intimacy, you had been able to pick up on the other teams setting out, some towards the lengthier shadows of the trees, some returning on the trail you’d all carried out on earlier, others turning towards directions that made no sense to you.  “Man, can you believe how many of them are going in the wrong direction?”

Perfect, if you can act as if you have the right idea as to where you should be heading to next, then this whole ordeal should be in the bag.  

“No.  We all have different clues.”  

“I know that!”  You cut in before he has time to put to light any more of your mistakes so far.  If you just had to fix one mistake, surely it would still be in the bag.  “But I mean, one team probably has a shorter route to it, if we play this smartly we can get to it first.”  That’s right, you could sort of, only slightly, recall a type of treasure hunt going on.  That was easy, you definitely did have it in the bag.  

“That’s quite smart.  If we weren’t all hunting down different objects and if the end of the route wasn’t this exact spot.”  

He looked perplexed as he read over what now appeared to be a list of clues and directions.  Perfect opportunity to work out what he’d just told you.  It would be a piece of cake...  But when he does take pity on you and reexplains the activity clearly, you don’t quite resent him for it.  

“It’s like a treasure hunt for artifacts they’ve planted around the campus.  But it’s one artifact per team, and the first one to successfully bring back their assigned one wins.  Most clues can only be worked out thanks to things we’ve learned so far this week.”  

He was still so factual, but you went along with it because his eyes drifted from the paper to skywards and his steps led you towards the forest as another pair had done, and you were holding the lantern in both of your hands and for an indecipherable reason, yet again, you were content.    

“Do you want me to take a look at the instructions too?  Two minds are always better than one, or something.”  You were pretty sure that’s a thing one of the teachers had said this week.  When commenting on the growing rapidity of scientific discoveries and its history.  If there were only few notable findings a long time ago, it was because not many people dedicated themselves to it, and mutual contributions in each other’s work wasn’t common.  You’re pretty sure it was something like that.  And you are absolutely impressed with yourself because now you’re doing exactly as David had described, using new teachings to unlock whatever artifact treasure you would be carrying back.  

“You teamed up with me so you could win, so let me win for us.”  He speaks softly and flowingly and something about it bothers you, or you think it does.  In any case, his shoulders slump forward, reminding you to straighten out your own, and the sheet of paper is properly kept out of your way.  

You glance back the way you’d come from, but it seemed David was quickly leading you amongst the darkest edges of the forest, and you think to yourself that he’s probably already solved the whole mystery of the sheet solely because he’s moving away so quickly.  Maybe he’d skipped to going straight for the item, instead of following every single step.  When you knew the outcome, it was easy to pull off stuff like that.  Then again, he keeps a few steps ahead of you at all times, no matter how bravely you try to match his strides.  And for such skinny legs, he’s really leaving you in the dust, unable to compare to his pace.  

Winning didn’t really interest you, clearly you hadn’t been the most brilliant participant during the week, and these next two days were probably not going to be the big gamble to change that.  Maybe there was a prize involved?  Here again, you hadn’t really listening or held any interest for it, and you have half the mind to feel vexed that you would be accused of such a thing when it obviously didn’t match up with the image you presented of yourself.  The image you present of yourself however, holds up no logical explanation to wanting to team up with this boy, and you almost wonder if he thinks you’re about to trap him in the forest and beat him up.  You remind yourself that that is ridiculous on all levels, first off he was the one leading both of you away from the others, and secondly you could not even bring yourself to imagine hitting someone.  For how hurtful people sometimes claim your words to be, inflicting any physical damage gives you a slight queasy feeling.  

“I think we should be friends, that’s why I thought it would be a good idea.”  It is probably the one sentence you’d spoken on this trip so far that felt right coming from you.  And as you watch him with his bad posture and continued determination, that feeling is only doubled.  Though you are quite aware that, from anyone else’s perspective, this one sentence would be off, against who you had made yourself out to be.  And so, unsurprisingly, he just seems to give you a dark look over his shoulder.  You imagine it’s a dark look, he’s scowling enough for it to be.  You have to guess and contemplate by making abstraction of the shades, it’s a bit hard, and with the light of your electrical source, the rims barely seem golden at all and more as if of a shining silver.  

“Your friend making tactics are creative.”  For a few moments you imagine that’s he’s resigned himself to not saying a word more, but eventually he pipes up with, “Besides, I don’t need another friend.”  

The sentence resonates weirdly with you.  He hasn’t seemed to have made a single friend over the course of the week.  Granted, it was only a few days, but all around you you could make out people forming quick bonds.  And he didn’t even seem to want to try out.  You’re momentarily reminded of the first night and of how he had reached a hand out to the only one out of you who seemed distressed.  But now, you’re starting to think he truly has a hero complex.  After all, there was not another instant similar.  He’d spent his time rising above everyone else when he could, and trying when he couldn’t.  So you hadn’t really pictured his personal life to include friends.  He was just a high achiever, it seemed like.  

You’re starting to think that impressions are incredibly traitorous.  You don’t feel as if you have too many friends in the slightest.  The friends that you do consider important are so intangible, and though you’d never share this doubt with them, you’re quite scared that these friendships are also fragile.  You could use a friend you’d made face to face.  It’s probably not David; he doesn’t like you in the slightest, and you are mildly aware that this makes for an even more fragile friendship.  

You open your mouth to try again, you really do want to be his friend.  You do, you do, you do.  And oh god you wish that you didn’t, and you can’t even explain what is this pull to befriend him.  If you don’t give it your all though, you think you might regret it.  Though you don’t really like putting yourself out there, you don’t quite like giving your all; you’d rather keep some for yourself.  Your resolve drops to the water and you are left simply watching him steadily make his way through the forest, dodging branches, skipping over tree roots, frequently glancing up to the skies.  You imagine his sheet of paper to be a chart of the sky instead and you follow wordlessly, not daring to speak at all.  

There’s a possibility you were the first one to understand you were nearing a river, what seemed to be almost half an hour of walk later, though you didn’t really have any grasp on the time to truly tell as much.  But the rush of water reached your hearing at the same time as a firefly landed on Dave’s shoulder.  Also the moment when your eyes caught on to the fireflies’ other manifestations around you.  It brought a grin to your face, mostly because David looked much less lonesome now that he had such an oddly paired companion.  For a moment, the idea that he was so slender and so pale and that animals of the forest were befriending him wordlessly, though yes you did know they were merely bugs, had you laughing out loud.  Which also had him stopping in his tracks and looking back at you once again.  

“Oh god, David, the forest is in love with you.  I think you might be a Disney princess.”  

His reply is quick and biting, “Oh, haha.  Wow, good one.”  

But it’s not truly intimidating, not when the firefly had not yet moved from his shoulder.  You imagined him with a halo of fireflies and it has you almost bending over in laughter.  His hair was already always so reminiscent of a halo that this truly took the cake.  

“You’re like the perfect muse.”

“Would you shut up.”  

But you don’t back down, not yet.  Because even though you could call him a princess, an angel, a muse, and have it not sound all that weird, it all crumbled at the idea of his eyewear.  And you choked back a few extra seconds of laughter to set your eyes firmly on the famed shades.  

“Hey, now that we’re more of on a friend basis than before...”  He actually sort of looks affronted now, but you finish your request regardless.  “Do you think maybe I could buy your shades?”  

You swear you are being as sweet and as nice as can be, you haven’t sent him a mean look this entire time, you’ve been appreciating him even.  But he seems to veritably explode with that question.  

“Oh, I am sick and tired with your fascination!”  And then he’s bringing his shades to rest atop your head and it takes you by complete surprise.  “Look, yes, I can take them off.  But even without them I still can’t read this any better because you’ve been hogging that lantern like it’s your fucking crack this entire time!”  

The moment is a lot less memorable than you thought seeing him without the wretched thing on his face for the first time would be.  It mostly has to do with how dark everything is and how his hysterical tone is a lot more impressive than his only slightly aggravated facial expression.  Also, the realization that he had led you blindly into the forest, completely unable to read the printed words is just about the funniest joke you can imagine.  

And as you almost pee yourself laughing, he trots over to you, shades slipped back into place, and if you knew him just a bit better, you think you’d hug him.  

 

\------------------

Tomorrow is Sunday.  Tomorrow you are leaving.  For an entire week.  At this dreaded hell that you like to call space camp, but it’s not really, it’s a space academy or some shit, but you could not care any less than you currently already do.  A week isn’t so bad.  You’d only have to sleep there for six nights.  It meant that when you go to bed tomorrow, you can tell yourself, only five more nights in this bed.  And that is about fifteen percent less than the nights you do have to spend there in total.  So it will go down pretty smoothly.  You don’t think you will have time to miss your home, or your friends...  

In fact, you think you probably miss your friends more so when you’re online and they’re not, than when you have to spend time away from the computer.  Besides, you had kind of seen what the schedule there would look like; it seemed busy enough.  Sure, you can’t remember the last time you’d gone a week without chatting with one of your beloved friends, but sacrifices had to be made.  You wish this one in particular didn’t have to be made of course, but you’re starting to think it might not be that bad.  If you can show your father that this poses no problem to you, maybe it’ll even be sort of like wiping your slate clean.   And maybe, next year, instead of leading classmates into being short from insufferable, you could actually make friends that can come over to your place from time to time.  

For now, you do have friends.  And they’re great, unique, funny, caring; you can’t imagine meeting someone in person who could compare.  The thing is...  You think you will survive this week apart, you’re pretty positive even that you will.  The problem would be that; announcing this leave would be acceptable as well, but leaving unannounced might potentially anger them.  And all things considered, all three of your friends are pretty quick to the trigger.  You’d say Jade is the one who falls easiest in this category, and that’s saying something when you could also describe her as the most upbeat and bubbliest of your gang.  You don’t really want to taste Rose and Dave’s cold fury.  

They have no idea of your true colors though.  Or, no.  They do know your true colors.  So you don’t want them to know what’s been going on with you.  You’re just scared of your announcement of camp avalanching them into a full understanding of your true situation.  Maybe it had been different in the past, but in the three years that you’d all been friends, no one had ever run off to summer camp, and telling them that you are not only going off to summer, but also space camp, seems suspicious on all levels.  You know the conversation won’t transition from space camp to your suspension from school in a few lines, but you doubt your capacity of keeping it to yourself, not when there’d be questions aimed your way.  And your friends might only be a handful of months older than you, but they were intelligent.  It was a wonder you’d fooled them for so long.  

Today is Saturday and you need to tell them.  You’re leaving tomorrow, and you need to tell them soon.  Yet you’ve already found twenty different activities to partake in online and the sun is already setting and your cursor is still hovering over the contact list, and you simply cannot do this.  This will be the death of you.  

When the incoming messages start flashing in, and the cascade of pings that can be heard from your computer alert you that it is indeed Dave, you take a few minutes to even begin to sort yourself out.   

That doesn’t work out too well, and when you do finally open up the application, the only thing you’ve managed to accomplish is to have even sweatier palms than you had already had.  You have zero ideas or clues as to what excuse you could give him.  Your current tactic is to own whatever the first impulsive thing you will type up will be.  

**\-- turntechGodhead** ** [TG] ** **began pestering ectoBiologist** ** [EB] ** **at 18:03 --**

TG: so we need to have this extra serious talk  
TG: well idk what degree of serious really  
TG: but it has to be now and youve been inactive like some manatee all day long  
TG: its like you could sense in the air that i was bringing bad news and that you just did not want to get mixed up with this shit  
TG: but this shit is serious and also on your little fancy shoes so youll just have to deal with it  
TG: even sugar coating it wont make it easier so im just going to put it out there  
TG: im leaving on this week long trip and we barely have time for some sentimental goodbyes so get off your ass and come talk to me   

And in that short moment, this current day has possibly become the happiest day of your life.

It seemed that Dave has basically tossed you a get out of jail free card, and that you could totally ride out on his very excuse to make your next absence legitimate.  You breathe for what feels like the first time today, and keep your friend from filling up your entire screen with his babbling.  

EB: that’s a little short notice, no?  
TG: you know what wasnt short notice though   
TG: the pace at which you reply to my always amorous messages  
EB: yeah, yeah.  i have a life outside of this sad screen.  i’ll make it up next time you pester me.  in a week...?   
TG: yup im hitting the roads with bro until late night saturday   
TG: so dont blame me on the short notice its his spontaneity that hit me right in the gut  
EB: that sounds like the lamest trip possible, what.    
TG: quite   
TG: my absence is heart breaking i know but you must carry on  
EB: pft, help, dave, i don’t think that i can!    
TG: you must  
EB: in fact, i think i’m going to go on an internet strike until you return safely.  
TG: wait   
TG: are you even serious

It takes a few moment to explain to Dave that you are indeed serious, that you will be refusing to go online for the time that he won’t be.  It takes all day however to wipe the smirk off your face.  There are some protests from the girls.  But you assure them that this is all part of the bro code, and that the only person to blame here was Dave.  And he in return keeps pestering you with a confused and disgruntled shade to all of his words and queries.  He doesn’t really get what is going on.  You simply tell him, he should have thought of that before organizing any surprise road-trips.  

You’re winging it, so you don’t care much for the complete absurdness of your excuse.  

 

\------------------

Dave didn’t consider himself to be a very private person, not really.  He didn’t have many secrets.  It’s not that he went out of his way to keep things to himself, it was just that he didn’t either go out of his way to uncover every single part of himself.  If anything that had to do with him came into the question, he’d reveal it; clear and simple.  Over the years though, Dave had developed a taste to identifying to a more reserved type of personality.  Maybe it was through his various online friendships, but he found that when things were exposed about him, for him, he felt inherently uncomfortable.  

He didn’t bring up touchy subjects, and when others did so for him, he did his best to keep a straight face.  He doesn’t think his best is very convincing though, but that is beside the point.  Dave just felt that, for the first time in his life, there was something to be kept to himself.  He knew only grade schoolers could confidently claim that their life mission was to become an astronaut, and he was going to spare himself his friends’ laughter on the subject.  He wasn’t going to bring up the subject, ever.  He’d even let NASA contact him, before he’d contact any of his friends to let them know of this ambition.  He felt stupid over the dream that he kept, and he felt stupid for feeling stupid in the first place, and there was absolutely no part of him that wished to discuss this with anyone of his entourage.  It had already been difficult enough to have his brother read his thoughts poured into the essay, and he was trying oh so hard now to make it as if this event had never occurred.  

Despite any of that, he was going to start putting the odds in his favor, he was going to work hard, even if it was only by himself.  Truth be told, come tomorrow, when he’d be off to space camp, he would dearly miss his friends, even if he couldn’t share any of these points with them.  Who knew, maybe he was going to meet someone with similar thoughts and dreams as him over the week and maybe he could talk to them about this sort of thing.  But that’s not what he needed, he needed his friends as...  Well, as they always were.  That said, coming up with a reason for departure had considerably stunted his creative abilities.  

In the end, he’d simply opted with using his brother as his backdoor.  His friends were unanimous in saying that his sibling was simply strange.  And if any excuse Dave could find on his own sounded completely strange, it would appear much less incongruous if offered by his older brother.

So that’s how it was settled.  He’d pestered his friends one by one to let them know that he was going to go on a random road-trip for the week.  It wasn’t...  The least credible story in the world, and really it seemed to run smoothly for a little while.  Until one John Egbert, his acclaimed best bro friend in the entire nation, had up and resigned from the internet as soon as Dave had given the news, rapidly and without much explanation.  And Dave was at a complete loss.  

At first, he’d thoroughly convinced himself that John had seen right through his story, but as the day advanced, he was a lot more sold with the idea that; John simply did not care about the story.  He wondered if perhaps John had had enough with the lot of them and wanted a break, and his heart seemed to drop at this.  His anxiousness of leaving his friends behind was quickly replaced with the paranoia of one of his friends leaving him instead.  

He’d felt so panicked in fact, that he’d begun unpacking his duffel bag, in hopes that John would take back the idea of an ‘internet strike’.  The unpacking did not last long or amount to much at all though, and sooner rather than later, he was packing everything back into the bag, as neatly as everything had been placed before already.  

When he’d brought up the point much later on in the night with his great confidant, one Rose Lalonde, instead of sleeping responsibly and preparing himself for the following day’s journey, she had ended up hushing his panic with a rather disarming sentence.   I do believe our friend is keeping something from us in the same way that you are, Dave.   To Dave’s great despair, that had been the end of that, and he’d retreated to his bed with the certitude that everyone has seen through his story in the end.  But maybe not John, not John because it had kept him from coming up with his own story.  

Easily, he added himself this new stress and worry for the week.  He wondered if, when he came back, John would return as well.  Even later into the night, unable to fall into a true and helpful sleep, he almost cracked, resisting the urgency to race to his computer and to send a message to everyone with the truth, where he was going, why he was going, and how horrible he truly felt for trying to keep it to himself.  

He’d even started up his computer, with the pure intent to make things right.  And when he’d finished adding the contacts for the message and readied himself to write down the truth.  Nothing at all came.  

Not anything came in the following ten minutes.  And when he returned to bed, it was with the deep sentiment that he’d disappointed himself.  He told himself, when on the edge of the night’s final period of rest, that he was just nervous for the start of a new experience on the following day.  That this stress had been unnecessary and childish.  It didn’t manage to make that stress vanish however.  

 

\------------------

The lantern was set on a slippery rock.  Both your pairs of shoes, and your single pair of socks, were aligned somewhere behind you.  Your feet were casually dipped into the river’s cold water.  You’d seen him take his shoes off first, and you’d followed his lead.  He’d turned to you after having spread his legs out, his pants rolled up messily, that it had been a stupid idea, and that the water was too cold.  But you’d just laughed and told him to suck it up and had matched his position.  Really, the water was cold.  You were a bit afraid of losing a few toes.  But it was a bit relaxing as he finally brought the list to light and he followed up with telling you every single thing he’d done wrong.

You’d like to point out that every single thing was, in this case, well, every single thing, literally.  It seemed he had not taken a right step so far.  When you pointed it out as he narrated what he should have done instead, he mumbled something like, “Well, I didn’t really care.  It served you right for thinking you picked the winning team.”  

He wasn’t quite hostile though, he seemed tired, but you didn’t really mind.  You thought this spot was nice.  The river was like an apparition, who would have guessed to find this close to the campus?  To be fair, you’re not even sure you’re all that close anymore.  But the river is a nice touch.  And the fireflies, still flocking to David as if he were a magnet, they were nice enough too.  Not to mention the pause of activities, that was also equally as nice.  You don’t think he’s any closer to leaning towards being your friend, but at least he’s not baring his teeth anymore.  

“Look, I can match the price of your shades,” you let out, completely out of the blue for it had been already minutes and moments ago that you had suggested that, but he still looks as insulted by the claim now.  

“They’re priceless.”  He sounds confident in that, actually grinning cockily and everything.  You almost want to push him into the water, almost.  

But at least, you’re starting to nourish the thought that he might have gotten them as a gift, again.  You couldn’t hate him for swooping into the online auction if he really hadn’t.  If he in fact did, things will be a bit more complicated.  

“I know how much your purchased them for!”  And just like that, you tell him the exact number he had dished out, the bare minimal bid he’d taken over you to get to the golden item.  God, just saying the number out loud had your heartbeat picking up in speed and in force.  

But he only gives you a quizzical look.  “Were you the guy selling them?”

This time, you think it’s your turn to explode.  However, you also think it has as little impact as his earlier explosion had on you.  

“No, I was the previous bidder.  And you’re the asshole who just bid as little as you could without even giving me a second to fight back!”  

You were indeed right, and he laughs in a similar fashion that you had earlier when he’d admitted not being able to read the clues.  Well, not really...  His laughter is quiet, and he brings his hand to cover it up, though you do hear the way he snorts anyhow, and it has you pulling this ridiculously pained looking expression.  Because his laugh was sort of awesome.  But god you hated him.  

He does see your look, and tries to catch his breath, gasping in between every other word when he apologizes.  “I’m so sorry.  I was told that was the way to do it.”  

“Yup, you’re right, that’s the way to be an asshole.”  You cross your arms and start splashing your feet in the water, sparing your shorts, but efficiently wetting his badly rolled up pants, he hops up from his spot, still laughing behind his hand.  You want to say you’re mature enough not to be glaring at your feet, but you’re just not.  

“You just have to understand, these mean a lot to me.”  

He’s not laughing when he tells you.  And he’s not speaking through facts anymore.  He sounds earnest, sincere really.  

“It was really important for me to get those,” you mumble, still moving your feet through the water and chasing any small fish nearby.  “Sometimes I wonder if not getting them ruined my life?”  

“They really do mean a lot to me,” he repeats, with less conviction than earlier.  

You have to pass a finger beneath your glasses to keep a tear from escaping you.  You don’t really know why you’re being so emotional all of a sudden.  You shrug at his repeated claim, but he sits back down next to you, closer than before.  

“So we’re going to have to come up with this bitching excuse to explain why we just wandered off, I think the guy might be a little pissed.”  

And now he isn’t hostile at all.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and for any feedback!


	5. Small Talk

The perfect time to take a shower was between eight and nine.  Not that this was your usual preferred time frame; back at home showering was the very last thing you’d do in the day.  And though a person or two had told you that falling asleep with wet hair is a huge no-no, it’s one of your favorite feelings.  And going to bed before nine wasn’t really part of your habits.  But in this week’s case, you think you’ll settle with this period of time.  It’s not that showering hours were strict, oh no, if anything you think it might be the most relaxed component of this place’s schedule.  Other components were, well, they were something.  Calling hours, or the single calling hour there was, was in between eight and nine.  And the fact that there are designated times to call loving parents has you laughing and easily comparing the futuristic looking building as a snug version of prison.  Though you did hear someone in charge mentioning that homesickness was a lot less likely to show up if kids could be kept from constantly thinking of their parents.  

Honestly, as thirteen year olds, you don’t think this should apply to your group.  Honestly, you think it’s bullshit.  And if you’re truly being honest, you’d say you’d know it’s bullshit because you haven’t used any calls to your father and you still miss him terribly.  

So at eight o clock, kids would crowd up the door down the hall, where their cellphones were kept, and a few others would line up in an adjacent hall instead, leading to three different pay-phones, this particular hall also led to the showers.  Where you could be found when the clock struck eight.  

Now, it is not as if the shower was a communal shower room, thankfully enough.  They were individual stalls, with doors and everything, lucky you.  But you were still annoyed when kids would communicate to one another, shouting to a shower some ways off, or trying to initiate water battles as best as they could.  You just wanted some peace and quiet.  And you were definitely not going to call your father anyway, he had put you through this and you would put him through silence in return.  You’d already planned your return home after tomorrow and all, you weren’t even going to dignify him with a hug.  You were going to remain collected and cold and he’ll never repeat this summer’s mistake again.  

Yes, in other words, you were killing the temptation to run to the pay-phone with your calling card by keeping yourself busy and showering as excruciatingly slow as possible.  The plus side is that you think you will manage this well.  Today is Thursday, and at least half of the calling hour has slipped away already, and you are going to make it without shedding any tears in front of anyone.  Well maybe one tear in front of one person, maybe yesterday counted.  But then again, maybe David was blissfully unaware of that; the forest had been dark and you had been quick.  

You’re probably wrong.  Because when you walk out of the showers, arms full with your various hygienic items and topped with your ultimately fluffy white towel, you find the particular blonde sitting in between two free pay-phones, legs sprawled out, and phone in hand as he seemed to type away.  And even the profile of his face can remind you of his recent change of attitude and firmly convince you that he had in fact seen the crack in your armor and, instead of giving you the final blow, had delicately backed away.  

By some miracle, you weren’t the last team to make it out alive yesterday.  And, you’re pretty confident Dave had no trouble digging out the tennis ball sized meteorite from its hiding spot on the way back.  He had probably only been willing to do so once he’d understood that you were honestly not out to be on the winning team; which still sounds preposterous to you.  He’d talked and talked when you’d both returned to the counselor and his torch, expressively and with big gestures that took you by surprise, explaining to him that you, yes, you John the menace, had deduced the origin of a river and that the both of you were dying to investigate the surroundings, explaining your delay.  The counselor had eaten right out of his hand, and you’d remained quiet.  

Today was a quiet day for you as well.  The days have truly begun taken their toll on you.  More than once though, you’d caught David looking your way, evident even with the obstruction of his eyes.  You think he feels bad for you, and you’re not sure why.  You should probably wash your hands clean of him though.  You weren’t about to get those shades back, and you’d asked with all that you had, and he’d still looked the other way.  So that was that, you’re done, no more blondie.  

For some reason, you completely make abstraction of that and stop your steps as soon as you reach his spot, glancing down and attempting to catch a glimpse of his screen.  

“How come your phone isn’t with everyone else’s in that one room?”  So much for washing your hands clean of him.  But this was genuine curiosity, you swear, there was nothing more to it.  You’re aware that he’s still allowed to have his phone for now, but come nine he’d still have it in his back pocket.  

“On the first day I told them I liked to listen to music before bed.”  He doesn’t look up, but his tone is still as apologetic as you remembered it to be yesterday.  

He’s not lying, but you still feel crossed.  Still feel as if this whole thing is unfair.  He shouldn’t get to keep his phone.  Or those shades.  And he should definitely not have someone like you thirsting for his friendship; because you were better than this.  

You ask him, “And that worked?”  And he only answers with, “They must like me or something.”  

“At least someone likes you then.”  

You hadn’t exactly planned on saying that, but his chin finally tilts upwards.  Though his expression does not change, he’s looking your way again.  You only wish you felt a bit less guilty.  

“I don’t really care.”  

You should have guessed that would have been his answer, nonetheless your hatred and secret admiration for him seem to suddenly clash more harshly than ever.  

You’re just about to tell him something.  Something flippant!  Something that will put him back in his place, something that will make him realize that only caring about his success and blacking out everyone else was a stupid, stupid thing to do.  You’re going to make him see that other people matter too, and you’re going to do that with just your words.  You’re finally going to get him to realize how awful he’s being to others by putting himself aside the way that he does.  

And yet nothing comes, and your motivation caves in.  He treats others better than you do, anyone does really, and you have no lesson to teach to anyone else about respecting your peers.  

You level your eyes back to the wall instead of downwards and towards him, and you let your lips press back together, no longer preparing the breath to speak your mind.  You’re washing your hands clean of this.  You are done.  Who even knows how you feel about this boy, but is this really worth your energy and frustration?  It’s not worth it, you’re close to going back home, and then everything can fall back into place.  You have your friends, you have your father, you have your things, and you might have a chance to make the coming school years pleasant even.  And there is no place with the reservation of David on it, it’s not part of your life and it never will be.  

It takes about ten to twenty steps for you to even remember that you’d left his side without another word, as if your mind has skipped over it, but you’re a bit happy that you had made it out of there.  Your shoulders are rounded, as if huddling your bundle of shower things closer, and you just don’t correct it.  Who even cares?  What good is going to come out of having a perfect posture?  You won’t exactly be getting bragging rights, you won’t be getting shit, and you won’t be getting those shades, and you just really, really, really don’t know why that detail is so upsetting to you.  

You busy yourself with your suitcase as soon as you enter your shared room, and for once you let out the snarl of annoyance you always want to whenever you try to dig out your stuff of your suitcase.  It just doesn’t work, everyone’s stuff is all in one place, you are eight people in here, and even though most are much lighter packers than you are, it’s frustrating, because there is no place to breathe and you need to breathe and it’s as annoying as you could possibly imagine.  

You stay hunched over your suitcase for some time, and you really do hope you had miscalculated the pace of this last hour because you really don’t want anyone in here right now, you just want to stay here with your hands pressed to your eyes and forget about everything and understand why, oh why, you needed those shades.  

The wish isn’t exactly granted.  You guess it could have been considerably worse.  David is the least chatty of the gang, so having him enter the room is possibly the best of a bad situation.  Except not at all.  Because if it’s him, it’s that he followed after you, it’s that he might have been standing in the doorframe watching you toss your belongings every which way inside your beloved suitcase, it’s that you finally have his attention and you’re not really sure you like that in the slightest bit now that you’re experiencing it.  

“What do you want?”  You can’t really keep yourself from sounding annoyed.  You also feel as if you must look completely crumpled onto the floor and seriously furious; you’re starting to think others may think you have issues.  Your issue is this guy though, that’s all, you swear.  

He doesn’t answer and it just makes you want to burst into legitimate tears, so to counter that you keep your glare set on him, willing the sadness away with your anger instead.  He climbs onto his bunk, still texting away you’re assuming, but for once he’s turned towards your bunk, legs kicked off the side of his bed.  He’s not looking at you so you take the opportunity to brush at your eyes and pick the glasses up from where you’d discarded them before your shower.  You have a case you should put them in, it’s important that you do, your father always tells you so, but you always overlook it.  One day they’re going to break, and you don’t think you will learn the lesson then either.  

You just guess when you climb onto your own bunk and match his position, but it’s a good one, because he finally puts his phone down onto his lap, and you wonder briefly why you haven’t ever seen him charge up the thing.  

“Why don’t you ever call your home?”  

It’s stronger than surprise...  You wouldn’t have thought someone as intriguing as him would have noticed something about you, let alone something he should have started picking up on since day one.  Maybe it was a lucky guess on his part as well.  You ask yourself, before you answer him, what his motives are.  But the energy you put into it seems to tire you out instead of motivating you to be the one with the upper hand.  

“I sure as hell am not going to call home to say, thank you, I love it here in space prison.”  You are mildly paranoid that your face is getting blotchy, even though you haven’t cried at all, you know you haven’t.  But you’re a bit afraid it’s going to shine through regardless of the truth.  

“Why did you come?”  

“It’s stupid,” you answer decisively this time, pulling the pillow out of place to brutally squeeze it to your chest.  It really was stupid.  And even as you turn the story over in your head, you get the sensation that if you were to speak up about it, it would just sound like something you made up.  

“Why are you so freakishly set on doing everything perfectly?”  You have the presence of mind of recommending to yourself to actually choose words that din’t have ‘freak’ as their prior connotation, somehow you don’t choose to follow this recommendation.  You don’t think you’ve managed to hurt him at all in the last few days, but the thought of it promises the shadow of a massive headache.  

“I’m not.”  

He looks a bit bashful, his teeth flash with whiteness as he smiles uncomfortably.  You should probably archive the number of times you’ve seen his teeth, you could probably count it on one hand, you’ll put your money on that.  

Though you can’t begin to follow his reasoning.  He really, really was set on achieving perfection, you’d witnessed it firsthand.  

Your expression is so deeply set in lack of understanding that he speaks up again, a tad more defensively.  “Is it so wrong to work hard?”  

You’re smiling back now.  Was he actually a bit self-conscious?  That’s nothing to smile about, you remind yourself; everyone can be self-conscious.  But maybe that was the general idea of your happiness here, finally, he was doing something standard, reacting normally, or something.  You aren’t really used to picking on someone and having them keep their chin up as you continue to do so.  You aren’t picking on him now though, you’re almost having a conversation, you tell yourself that you are, to make yourself feel better.  And now, of all times, he shows a bit of humane quality.  You guess that would make sense.  It was someone who would let their guard down when more comfortable.  The irony of someone being comfortable enough to let others know they are actually uncomfortable makes your smile even wider.  

You’re reminded, however, as he kicks his feet in the emptiness of the room, that a wide smile isn’t a very good answer to his question.  But you don’t give yourself some time to contemplate it, not when you’ve used it all up to take in the happiness his display of emotion was giving you.  

“What’s the use though?  I mean, the stuff we’ve been doing is pretty stupid.”  

He leans over, elbows resting on his lap and mouth hidden behind his hand, and with that most of his face is covered, so much for the delightful treat of his various emotional states.  

He says something that sounds like “If it’s stupid there isn’t any reason for me to fall short of perfect,” but you can’t guarantee it as his quiet tone has dipped into an amplified quietness, via his hand.  

“No, dude, if it’s stupid why waste so much time and energy on it?”  

“Then please tell me, where does all your energy and time go?  Aside from trying to buy my shades, I haven’t really seen you put effort into anything.”  

His hand falls away from his mouth now and you can sense a rise in his ferocious energy.  It would probably be best to back off.  And you’d like to tell yourself that you aren’t backing off because he’s hit the nail on the head.  It’s not because you don’t want to answer his question.  If you were to answer his question, he’d feel ashamed for even implying anything of the sort.  You’d like to tell yourself any of those comments, but sadly enough, you cannot do so convincingly.  

It’s best to back off, let him off the hook completely even.  You had previously decided that you were about to drop him after all, that had been it, you had had enough.  Glancing at the doorframe, you recall that six other boys share this room, and aside from David and you, you are fairly sure that most of them still had to hit the showers.  You glance back at the boy, wondering and guessing at which time he’d switched to his pajamas.  The difference in clothing was so subtle you weren’t always even so sure if he was ready for bed or for the day.  But then again you’d started noting that his day clothes were oversized, and that his night clothes were practically pooling to his feet.  Almost like they must have belonged to one of his older siblings or something of the sort.  

That’s it!  That was your way out.  He’d asked you why you never called home, and you were going to ask it back now, and he will finally understand how intrusive he was being and will finally back off from you.  That will make it considerably easier for you to back off from him.  Or you hope.  

“So,” and you take a breath of silence because there is literally no transition you are making here, but you will pretend this pause is good enough, “Any reason you’re giving your parents the silent treatment?  Oh, are they the ones pressuring you to be mister perfect?”  

That suddenly made sense, yes!  You feel as if you’ve come to a deeper understanding now.  He’d been pushed into this, expecting to come back with exceeding knowledge in all things, and it was a life or death situation, and he absolutely needed every resource he could put his hand on!

You’re not even being half serious, but you feel as if any of your dramatic inner musings will shed more light on the situation than his always cryptic answers could.  Especially now, he’s pulled his pillow into a hostage situation, similarly to the way you had earlier, and half collapsed onto the wall directly behind him, his legs still hanging off the side of the mattress.  For the first time, you scrutinize the lack of railing of your beds, and imagine how terrifying it would be if he rolled off his mattress in the dead of the night.  The realization that you’d be falling from just as high hits you only a few seconds later, and you pull back towards your own wall a bit more.  

“Man if only you knew,” he spoke after a while, a lazy smile showcasing what you assumed to be a full set of baby teeth (that would be a little late and all, but they were so tiny, you hoped those weren’t the teeth he was stuck with forever), “I’ve given my parents the silent treatment my entire life.”  

“Figures.  They must think they’ve gotten such a shitty kid.”  You’re not exactly bitter when you say it, but you do think about your father.  Your father was great, and you didn’t really mind that he gave you constant attention, but you haven’t sailed by with being quiet for a single day of your life.  He liked your input, so you were sort of cornered into being talkative.  Alright, often you retreat to your room, but his claims were so odd in contrast with your own lifestyle.  

“I don’t know what they think, we sort of have a mutual silent treatment, yeah?”  He rubs his eyes briefly, still smiling as if he is pulling the best prank in all history, and you are pretty sure that he really isn’t!  

Suddenly his phone is in hand again, and you have to twist your neck to get a better look at him and to remember that tonight, he didn’t really have any back pocket to stash it into, not in those gigantic sweatpants he sleeps in.  And it’s sort of pissing you off, that he’s appeared his phone as if it is the greatest magic trick of the century, while still sporting the smile that makes you feel as if none of your pranks have ever been successful, ever.  Damn it, you were so conflicted about him, always.  

You watch him, half glaring, half observing him as if he’s about to run off, and he almost does, he shifts around in his bed, slipping under his covers, setting his pillow back into place, but not before extracting his headphones from the crack in between the wall and the mattress.  That jerk looks like he’s settling in for his bed time!  It wasn’t even nine, or maybe it was, and if it was, you don’t know what was going on out in the hall, but they must be handing out some great evening snack to distract the others to such a length.  The image of candy apples pop into your head, but you can’t really explain that, and you don’t get up, because you are positive your candy apple craving will not be granted at space camp, space academy, whatever.  

You resort to answering because he doesn’t seem to have the set of mind to actually elaborate, already slipping his headphones around his neck and sliding his finger over the surface of the screen.  “No, not yeah!  Like you would even be here if you couldn’t talk to your parents!”  The idea of someone under appreciating their parents is irritating you like never before; you’re pretty sure it has to do with how you haven’t seen your father in the longest time you’ve ever had to go through now and are also doubting your own appreciating skills.  

He turns towards you, shades still in place, and you find the capacity of finding his shades incredibly infuriating, once more.  He looks a bit more serious now, and you’re hoping he will stop whatever he’s trying to pull.  But instead he tells you, “Dude, I just, don’t live with my parents.”   

So you have to call, “Bullshit.”  You want to tell him, you are special enough as it is, you don’t have to make up stories about your home life.  

“Don’t tell this to anyone, but sometimes unfit parents actually don’t get to raise their kids, I know, it’s really revolutionary.”  

You must be starting to believe him because he takes another look at you and tells you one more thing before hoisting his headphones back into place.  “Don’t worry though, I actually have the coolest guardian in the entire world.”  And the way he says it, the way he smiles too, makes it seem as if this was the juiciest secret in the entire world.   

And you just want to throw a pillow at him because now you’re just imagining him growing up in some place like the White House, and everything was pictureperfect about him, and you hated him and you...  Throw your pillow at him.   

You almost swear you hear him snort, you’re not sure what you saw though, because as he does, the pillow is thrown back to your side of the room and into your face.  

When you pull it back aside and have the decency of checking your glasses’ lenses, you realize that he’s thumped over to his side, glasses gently rested next to him, as every other night.  But usually he doesn’t roll into that position until he’s taken the headphones off.  You wonder if he wants to fall asleep listening to music tonight, you wonder if, if that is correct, why was tonight special?  You wonder if he’s just doing so to block you out.  You wonder if he’s tired from trying so much.   

You wonder if he wonders about his parents sometimes, you wonder if he knows their full story.  And then you wonder about your mother, and you angrily wonder why you don’t know your own full story.  But you suppose your dad is man enough to be your entire parental unit.  

Then you imagine David’s guardian to be a woman, because he seems so soft and delicate, even if when he speaks up he presents none of that, you still imagine him being tucked into bed by his mother at night, being read fairy tales and such.  You close your eyes, wonder if your mother used to do that before she was out of the picture.  

 

\------------------

In the winter time, you often get reprimanded for not pulling socks on underneath your winter boots.  Every winter, you also fall ill, and your father is adamant when saying that your sickness could have been avoided simply by offering warmth to your feet.  He tells you that the feet are as important to heat up as the head.  You’ve never really been sold on that theory though because you are pretty sure you’d prefer to lose one of your toes to frostbite rather than an ear.  You’re thinking, the ear thing you will have to explain daily, and the toe thing will just make the people close to you giggle.  

Ah well, it isn’t as if you do wish to lose a toe, and you are quite sure in fact that this cannot occur.  Your feet were covered after all, you weren’t dancing around in the snow bare footed.  You’d be wearing boots, for goodness’ sake.  You didn’t wear some silly in between layer so that your hat will truly keep you warm.  You don’t quite see the utility of socks.  Aside from avoiding blisters?  But on this day, you have decided to slip your feet into a pair of underused socks.  It’s warm outside, and your father had given you the weather forecast for your final destination, a few states away.  And that one sounded a bit as if it were dominating the concept of warmth.  But you pull on the socks.   

Some part of your mind laughs at you, and you can very well understand why.  Adopting your father’s advice, at the opposite season it was destined to come into play, was a ridicule safety net.  You were about to be pushed out of your comfort zone, and you feel ridiculous once the socks are pulled up your ankles.  Because socks are not your comfort zone and you do not know why today of all days you have decided to cling to them.  A few hours later, you will feel smug when the cold of the plane hits you, imagining yourself zooming through the sky outside of the plane and imagining how cool the air must really be, but add a couple more hours to that sum and you will no longer feel smug.  It’s probably destined though, when the first shoes you will be able to throw on when your father will start getting impatient are just plain sandals.  Sandals and socks should not mix.  

You aren’t thinking of that particular combination as you start out the day.  Any other day, you would boot up the computer once you’ve returned from the bathroom.  And so you do, mechanically and without much thought, pesterchum is blinking into application before you even have the chance to take in your actions.  And once it does, you tell yourself you might as well go with the flow, and you sit down at your desk, sighing with the familiarity.  You could only wish the week would speed by quickly and that you’d be home within these walls in no time.  

You think you’d pinpoint your current feeling to ‘getting away with murder’, or something like that.  You had kept quiet about your situation at school, and now you were managing to sneak away from home for an entire week, still clear of any suspicions, and then you’d return, enjoy the rest of your holiday talking and hanging out with your best friends, well as best as you can with the distance.  And school would start up again and this little mishap from the past year will never reach the ears of your buddies.  

You’ve never considered yourself a liar, but for a few moments, you have to congratulate yourself and wonder if the vocation of a liar would not be something you could excel in.  

These assertions could not possibly be more wrong.  And within a few minutes of talking with Rose, jokingly telling her you were bidding her your tearful goodbyes, you make the mistake of commenting on just how spectacularly well everyone was taking your impulsive internet strike.  

TT: That is, if you make abstraction of TG’s fit regarding your suspicious departure.  

You had in fact made abstraction of so called fit, for you had not been aware of its existence.  Easily, as you continue exchanging with Rose, the panic signed Dave comes to light first, and then her suspicions of you come second.  And you successfully imagine the top two levels of your castle of cards(lies) collapsing on themselves.  But really, that only leaves the Jade level, and you convince yourself to only send her a message instead of initiating conversation.  Because you can’t have absolutely all of your friends seeing through you.  

Rose doesn’t seem to take the matter too seriously though, and you suspect that she doesn’t because she believes she’ll get her hands on the truth some time in the near future.  But you do know Rose as well as she knows you, and you are putting all of your money on her forgetting this one conspiracy theory.  She has too many bouncing around in her head to solve the lot of them.  The Dave side of things bites you with more guilt.  And once Rose conveniently points it out, you do understand that you’d basically shrugged your shoulders at him when he’d presented you his week long trip, and had quickly jumped at the opportunity to drop out of the picture.  

Sometimes it’s incredibly easy to forget that Dave maintained a strong dependent side, especially when he spent so much time trying to present himself as the opposite of what that revealed.  It pained you to admit it, but he was just one of those people who loved so strongly that the ones who loved him couldn’t ever set themselves on matching it.  You feel a bit like a jerk for thinking that he likes you more than you like him, but you try to tell yourself that maybe his life offline presented opposite situations.  You feel a little better, but not really at all.  

And as the day advances, quickly approaching lunch time and subsequently your time to leave the house behind, you start to rethink this whole theory of you not liking Dave as much as he likes you.  Because you spend most of your time impatiently staring at his chumhandle and willing him online and mentally preparing what you would tell him.  You’d tell him...  You’d tell him the truth.  And he’ll be reassured, especially knowing he is the only one in on the secret.  That’s what you would do.  You’d tell him exactly where you were going and it would solve everything.  

He doesn’t sign in though.  And shamefully, you lower your forehead to your desk, feeling increasingly bad.  You’d spent the remaining hours you had at home just staring mindlessly at the screen.  You’d wasted it.  And you hadn’t been smart enough to catch on that Dave has already left on his trip.  You almost cry when you think of leaving the house.  

But before you know it your father is berating you from the hallway and you have to hurry up, and thank god he had helped you pack your suitcase last night, or that would have never been accomplished.  And in your rush to be on time with your father’s schedule, you never get to find any other shoes but the damned sandals.  (You later remember that you had packed most other pairs into your suitcase already.)   

You don’t give yourself time to think of how much you want to stay home.  And you put Dave’s abandoned feelings completely aside from you, you could think of that next time you walked into your beloved childhood home.  You were still hoping you could simply wish the week away.  

 

\------------------

Dave was something of a night owl.  He’d developed the habit in past years, he would have picked his friends over anyone else in the world, but some of the trickiness remained in their location nonetheless.  And they’d all fallen into different time zones.  Granted, they were more or less all in the same country, though Jade did sound a bit as if she was lost at sea.  But it could have been considerably worse, they could have landed with much more considerable differences in time.  It remained that was stuck with the eastern side of the deal, and that both him and Rose positioned themselves in the later hours of the day.  Granted, a couple of hours was minimal.  But he found that it might make quite the difference in sleep schedules.  And because Rose liked to play the responsible part, she’d excuse herself to bed, and when Dave tried to do the same, he was met with twin responses of ‘But Rose just left us, stay longer.’  

And stay longer he did.  Dave wouldn’t figure that he has a hard time being the one hopping off pesterchum first, but the instances in which either John or Jade would leave for their own bedtimes, before Dave had time to think of his own, were starting to gain in proportion.  Dave stayed up late, but he didn’t really know if he liked it that way.  

And possibly, he would be a great morning person, the bird to catch the worm first, instead of the night owl.  He’s guessing that if his friends were in the neighborhood instead, he’d probably crash to bed much earlier.  But as it stands, his mornings were definitely colorless.  Though he did not fit into the grumpy stereotype, he was awfully lacking in energy when morning came around.  

So, today is a surprise.  His brother had popped into his bedroom more times than acceptable on the previous day, reminding him constantly, you’re getting up at four, go to bed.  But he had shrugged it off as if it had been nothing, he’d just crash during the trip to get there.  Of course, his brother had grumbled that he was more worried with physically having to throw him out of his bed to get him to stand up.  

That had proved to be a useless plan, as the younger sibling found himself wide awake, only minutes before the knock was heard on his bedroom door.  It takes a lot for him to understand, through the daze of the morning, that it must have been his brother’s movements within the apartment that had provoked the sudden awakening.  But Dave found himself, not sleepy in the slightest, getting ready diligently and almost energetically and kicking his routine into gear without any issues whatsoever.  

“It’s not fuckin’ Christmas morning,” the older Strider had mumbled when he had found the other patiently waiting at the door, backpack slung over one shoulder, ready to move out of the place.  

The comment had embarrassed him to no end, but he’d still hopped down the stairs two at a time on his way down.  Almost slipped twice, but caught himself on the railing each time.  

He’d honestly been thinking his older brother was going to drive him all the way out there.  When they’d finally remembered that transportation was a thing that needed to happen, only a few days prior to, the eldest had glanced at the boy and simply said, “Well, if I ain’t paying for you to go in the first place, am I really expected to pay for you to get there?”  

And when he’d later told Dave that he could just hitchhike his way over there, he hadn’t bought in for a single second.  It couldn’t be, he wouldn’t do that, it was completely outrageous.  

But as they hit the ground floor and Dave kept hopping down the stairs, expecting to access the underground parking lot, his brother had only hollered at him to come through the front door before he would slam it shut.  At this point, Dave still kept firmly with the idea that he just could not be driving all the way there with a stranger.  That wouldn’t happen.  

And even as they crossed the street, traffic minimal as could be with the early hour, and as his brother explained they’d have to hitchhike from the other side because then they’d catch the people taking the right exit, the teenager still refused to believe it.  

He asks him two, three times to put his thumb up, and Dave only crosses his arms, glaring dejectedly at the sidewalk.  He barely has the consciousness to register his brother putting his own thumb up before a car is steering towards them.  “Come on man, it’s your camp, not mine, you get to tell them what’s going on.”  And, completely beside himself, he jogs to the other side of the car to meet with the driver, and surely enough...   

“Bro, you suck!”  

Surely enough, he’d recognized one of his brother's friends, probably perfectly on schedule with whatever time he’d received to pick them up.  He doesn’t bother greeting the man as he quickly races back to the safety of the sidewalk, still aware that there were barely any other cars out, only some brave joggers.  

“I’m taking the backseat,” he tells his guardian, stalling behind him and waiting for him to enter the car.  

He only laughs in reply.  “I don’t have all day to waste, you’re going to get out there and fly with your own wings.”  

Dave’s face definitely darkened at that.  “So...  I’m going alone...  With him?”  He was whispering loudly, as if afraid it would be caught by the driver.   

“Oh come on, you know this guy.  And you’ll text me during the week to let me know when you need to get picked up, right?  You’re in good hands.”  

He was still scowling even as he was being pushed towards the car, and he had to admire the driver’s patience as he sipped on his coffee, completely letting the two brothers to themselves as he waited.  

“How much did you even pay him?  You said you wren’t going to pay a cent!”  

“Since when am I such a cheapskate?”  He was quick to put his gloved hand into Dave’s styled hair and to promptly mess it up.  

“But, I thought you were driving me,” Dave whined, still putting all of his weight to his heels and refusing to come in contact with the car’s door.  

And it was only because his older brother loved him dearly and read him as an open book that he got in between the boy and the car.  It was only because he’d miss the kid as much as the kid would miss him that he pulled him into an expressive hug.  For both their sakes’, he pretended Dave didn’t sniffle into his shirt.  And for Dave’s sake, he let him babble on for a few minutes before reminding him that it was time to go.  

And it was only once the car was out of sight that he reasoned, that that too might have been for both of their sakes.  Luckily, his phone buzzes with a new text message not long later, and he spends most of his day replying to his charge.  It was the very first night Dave slept away from home, but the boy had made him promise not to tell a soul.  He didn’t really have anyone to tell.  His apartment was empty.  

 

\------------------

You startle when your eyes open.  Everyone was in bed, the only light cast was filtered through the cracks of the doorframe, coming from the silent hall.  You can’t remember falling asleep.  And for a few moments, you don’t remember the events leading up to your sleep either.  You have to sit up in the bed that isn’t really yours and to force yourself to breathe evenly.  And before everything has the chance to cascade down on you, you solely remember the line, parents unfit to raise their children.  

A dull ache that you can’t recognize rattles your ribcage, and your breathing gets too harsh to even out.  You clutch at your head for a few instants, images of your father’s care flooding your mind.  And then that part is settled, that’s alright.  But you start making the circle, thinking of Rose’s mother.  Sometimes her stories were funny, sometimes not so much, and you suddenly worry yourself with it.  And then who did Jade even have, her grandfather’s stuffed corpse?  As farfetched as her own stories sounded, you believed her easily.  She was clever and creative, you could imagine her surviving on some Pacific island somewhere.  But that loneliness worries you too.  

And you complete the circle with Dave, because you’d always just assumed his parents were very rich people who had let their sons bunk out in the city together because they thought that would be insanely cool.  But you’re suddenly not so sure.  And the term makes you feel uncomfortable to no end.  

You climb down the ladder to your bed, and climb up David’s in a matter of seconds, and shove him without much hesitation, now taking up much of his bed space.  You don’t question it.  Because as much as you find yourself striving for him to like you back in any way, your friends still come first.  

When he wakes up, he hisses in the sort of way that reminds you of a ballon deflating.  It hits you that he had fallen asleep much like you, unaware of it.  His shades had pressed into his face as he had slept on his side, and his headphones had slipped out of place.  

“I need to use your phone,” you tell him urgently.  

He somehow doesn’t push you out of the bed and into a potentially harming fall, and you think it’s probably because he’s still mostly asleep.  The phone is unceremoniously dumped into your hands and he turns back towards the wall.  

“Can I use your pesterchum application?”  You ask softly as soon as you find it.  Figures he’d have it, any cool kid of your age would.  

“Yeah, just sign me out of it,” he speaks in a voice that resounded with a lot more childishness than you had seen him display so far.  You take a moment to stare at him, and to feel bad as his shades are folded carefully next to him again, and he presses his palms to his face, probably to alleviate the pain of the aviators digging into his skin.  

Your finger hovers over the screen, and ultimately, you decide to shut down the phone instead.  

“Hey,” you whispered, sitting up in a more normal way, trying to no longer look the part of the deranged kid who had shook him awake.  “Sorry about this, I think I can wait until after tomorrow, when I can contact them.”  

He looks over his shoulders, and it’s still too dark to really get a good look of his face, similarly to how it had been in the forest.  But your eyesight is adapted enough for you to guess the marks around his eyes, and how aware those same eyes seemed to be, despite his sleepy condition.  

“You leaving on Saturday?”  

You nod your head, and that’s the last sign of life he gives you that night.  When you get back to your own bed, your heart is racing, and the sensation that overcomes you is a weird one.  As if you’d been very close to something you had somehow managed to miss.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone who is reading, I hope you like it u__u


	6. Timed Feelings

Why leaving on Saturday would be anything out of the ordinary only comes to you with the first ray of sun of the following morning.  The kid below your bed, Jason or something, wakes you up with an infernal ruckus, chanting something about heading home.  Even then, the reason hasn’t yet solidified in your mind.  

It’s only when you’re staring your breakfast down in the cafeteria, with a tiredness that rivaled your hunger without problem whatsoever, and when your table’s entire population turns their head towards the front of the cafeteria.  The front is much too far, so you don’t bother to adopt the same outlook.  Besides, it wasn’t really your table’s entire population.  You glance at David for a second or two, he’s eating fruit out of a bowl with a spoon, and the fruit seems to entice him much more than whatever announcement is going on.  You find it in yourself to not be frustrated that he’d used a bowl destined for cereal for his fruit, and that he’s using a spoon instead of simply his fingers.  You call that considerable progress.  But when you find yourself still lifelessly staring at your own meal, you reconsider that it might be your dead tiredness.  

You groan when you catch on to the short briefing though, the girl had showed up with a megaphone after all.  You think it’s sort of pointless, the sound kind of gets lost amidst the windowed walls.  But you didn’t really want to hear about tidying up to properly welcome parents.  Oh god, what, they could come and see what life was like at space camp or whatever, whose idea had that been?  Though you’ve heard of that before today, the day’s objective, you hadn’t really connected it to actual people showing up.  And an award ceremony?  You didn’t want to be obligated to stuff some participation certificate into your suitcase.  You didn’t want to see anyone’s parents, you wanted to go back to bed.  

You glance at blondie again, and calling that has your lips curling a bit, you haven’t for a while now.  He didn’t seem to be paying attention either.  And that’s when you start adding numbers up.  “You leaving tomorrow?”  You ask him almost groggily.  

And one of the kids at the table has the decency to look shocked at you addressing him so openly.  

When he pulls the spoon away from his mouth, he mumbles a light, “Yeah.”  

You don’t really understand why you’re happy that that means his mystery guardian wouldn’t show up, but your lips hadn’t yet curled back down.  

You end up sticking to him like glue throughout the entire day.  He doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t tense up; honestly you could say it was as if it made no difference to him, but you were grateful.  You were really grateful.  He was someone to hang on to as kids progressively went through heartfelt reunions with their parents throughout the day.  Others have been passing shirts around, asking friends to sign the articles of clothing.  You don’t really think you’ve made any friends?  You’d bossed some people around, yeah, sure.  No one asks David to sign anything, and he doesn’t ask anyone to sign any of his clothing either.  But you get the slight feeling that he values his clothing as much as you value your own belongings.  But you’re reassured in this, that he’s in the same position as you, hasn’t gained any friends.  

You figure that you might admire him, at least a little bit.  

The day goes by fairly quickly, the tiny sort of graduation ceremony they throw isn’t too late into the day.  And the montage they project of the week is also kind of awesome.  And when you catch sight of some of the other activities older kids get to partake in, you try not to be envious.  You shouldn’t be in any case, you’re pretty sure you had been up to some pretty interesting things during the week too, and you were never ever able to concentrate long enough to really understand what you were doing.  You’re actually in one of the pictures.  And you recognize it as the night you went out into the forest with David.  It looks as if you’re arguing, amongst the other pairs.  You don’t really know who might have shot the picture, and you’re just slightly angry that the chaperone must have snapped it with a phone or something similar, without ever giving the sign that he was doing so.  

Things go fairly well, you’d say they were even more than bearable.  Though you don’t listen to most of the ceremony, when David abruptly stands from next to you and makes a beeline for the announcer up ahead, and everyone is politely applauding away.  You end up applauding loudest, even putting your fingers to your mouth and whistling loudly.  You hadn’t listened at all.  But it makes sense when they slip a medal around David’s neck that he would have of course won some sort of an award.  

You can almost swear that he looks at you as he turns to the small crowd.  And he smiles like you haven’t seen him smile before.  For a moment or two you are utterly lost.  He looks different, and there is a sudden aura to him.  

It’s ephemeral, and you only recall that you had experienced the same sort of apparition the first time you’d seen him once he sits back down next to you.  You watch him out of the corner of your eye, and he’s still smiling away, his hands pressed to his knees.  You think he is one of the prettiest persons you’ve met.  You are genuinely happy for him.  You try not to make a big deal out of that.  

You also try not to make a big deal out of the way the light had hit his pale hair and the gold of his shades and the brilliance of his smile.  And you try not to think that the shape of his face goes nicely with those shades.  You feel as if you are a traitor even from simply harboring these thoughts.  You try not to make a big deal out of it, you’re pretty confident that you do so regardless.  

You do indeed end up accepting some certificate of participation, it’s actually a knock-off diploma of your week here, and you really do find some silliness within the concept of throwing a graduation party.  They take a group picture, of the eight kids of your little team.  You assume the adults lining up behind the day’s assigned photographer could only be different parents from the guys who’d slept in the same room as you for the past week.  You can’t find it in you to even care what sort of familial situation they had or to even feel envious of other completed families.  Dave’s elbow keeps knocking against your own, and you don’t make a move to bring an arm around him in the pictures, but you feel close to him despite that.  The picture is followed by one of all the teams in your program, and after another one of all participants.  There are a lot of people, and the high number of voices all mingle inside of your head until you feel completely drained.  

It’s funny how the building’s population goes from so populated to remotely empty in an hour’s time, there had been a lunch in the cafeteria, and you had had to notice that there was an exceptional increase in the food’s quality, but you’d kept that to yourself.  Easily enough; because your table’s usual residents had broken up into different tables, still chattering away with different family members, and you hadn’t spotted David at all, so you’d eaten alone, staring out of the windowed wall without any reservation.  

But as different groups finished their meals, they’d started leaving.  And you’d followed after the somewhat constant stream of departing families, finding that kids were finally using the main doors.  Two massive doors that intimated you greatly, and seemed heavy to push, but were activated automatically at the push of a button.  You’d snuck outside of those doors yourself, and sat on the top stair of the staircase leading out of the great building.  

You sat there, for hours it seemed, watching the parking slowly gain in vacancy.  A strange feeling inhabited you, as if you were beside yourself, outside of your own body.  But you thought and said nothing of it, only looking out to the space.  When you finally stand up again, you feel as if you’ve recharged your batteries, and you wonder if maybe you’d sought out isolation by reflex, after having to shoulder the high number of people earlier in the day.  

You figure it’s almost supper time when you make your way back inside, and it takes you a surprising amount of time to find someone of the staff, there were usually so many people dressed in the typical uniform, and it’s only when you go all the way back to the dorms, and finally find an adult in the assigned bedroom for the night crew, that you even understand that today had been the last day for many chaperones as well.  

When the man in charge waves you inside the room, you walk away instead, having answered your own question yourself.  There would probably only be a handful of students who had to leave on the Saturday, and there were probably even fewer adults around to make sure of their safe departure.

With nowhere else to wander off to, you return to your dorm room, letting yourself fall face first into the mattress underneath David’s bed.  You can’t even recall the face of the boy who’d slept there, and you didn’t make any effort to help the memory resurface.  You stay there for some time, eventually curling up onto the mattress, facing the wall in a similar way that David did every night.  You wondered about him too, asking yourself if he’d truly be staying tonight, or if he’d only said so to antagonize you.  You focus very harshly on the anatomy of his face instead, slowly coming to realize that this was the last you would see of him.  It was a hard task to accomplish, you were fairly sure that the large aviators skewed your vision of his face, you tried anyway.  His eyes, his eyebrows, the top of his cheekbones vanished underneath the dreaded shades however, and to fight the feeling that was overcoming you, you had to wrap your arms over your stomach.  

You suppose that’s how he found you.  He never really announced his presence, but he’d sat down on the bed next to you.  You think he might have waited for you to be ready to face him, as if he knew something weird was going on with you; because he never said anything, only sitting there, leaned against the pillow you’d overlooked.  It takes an insurmountable effort for you to flip onto your back as to catch sight of his face, and maybe understand it better from this angle.  What finally motivates you to push through is the knowledge that this might just be the first time he’d come to your side.  

You don’t really get a better view of his face because he’s looking down, looking down to the camera you’d seen him with on the very first day, back around his neck, just as it had been on that day.  He’s sat up against the wall, looking through his pictures you suppose, and thin legs stretched out in front of him.  Your arms curl over your stomach again in an attempt to hold back the fondness that was overwhelming your senses.  

You have to look at him for some time for him to speak up.  You had been trying to communicate, through your heavy gaze, that you did want to talk now but did not want to initiate it.  For some reason, you think he understood.  

“I really didn’t get much of a chance to photo document the week.”  He stops there, and shuts down the camera, you think, and leaves it hanging around his neck.  He crosses his arms gingerly, as if trying to take the same position as you.  When he catches on that you still don’t have words with which to reply, he tries again.  “It would be cool if I could like go home and show how things were here, living here, and stuff?”  

As he speaks you stare on at the printed cherries of his camera strap, and wonder why he no longer had his golden medal around his neck.  You start remembering the words he’d used much later after he’d spoken them, and you can’t help but to understand that he was offering his guardian the chance to basically live what the other families had lived today, and you’re a bit irked by it.  You suddenly want to be alone again.  You should have never come back inside.  

You turn back on your side.  You have the presence of mind to understand that you were outright ignoring him, and god, oh god you knew you had a lot to make up for.  You knew you’d put him against you starting day one.  You should be redeeming yourself.  But you felt without energy.  And your school problems were starting to surface back to the forefront of your mind.  This year would be as shitty as the last one had been.  The thought of that makes your eyes feel...  Tight, almost.  This week has been the first one where you’d openly admitted that this year, had not been fun.  You’d spent your time acting as if you were on top of your game, but after all of it, you could see that you just hadn’t had a good time.  

You feel the extra weight lift off of the bed, but never hear his departing footsteps.  You groan, unashamed of your feelings now; it was just David.  It was just this kid that you didn’t really know and who’d ripped away something that had mattered to you, something you didn’t know would matter so much, without ever even seeing your face.  It was just this kid who was constantly on his best behavior, but who offered even less of himself than you did.  And it bothered you, and it made you wonder, if your own lack of will to share yourself could ever be as bothersome.  It was just this kid who wouldn’t leave your side now when all you wanted was to be alone.

So you tell him, as clearly as you can without provoking further tightness in your eyes, “Could you leave please?”  

But he still doesn’t.  

“Dave, what do you want?”  

You were facing him before you realized you’d let the name slip again.  He was just this kid who’d ended up with your best friend’s perfect thirteenth birthday present.  And you were just this other kid who needed someone like your best friend.  Any of your best friends really.  But they were all far, and they felt so detached from you; the tightness was starting to reach your throat.  

You didn’t bother apologizing, but when you’d turned to face him, your chest suddenly filled with air, as if contrasting the tightness spreading across your face with a destabilizing lightness.  You could make out that his eyes were turned downwards beneath the shades you hated so, that and you could see his Adam’s apple move in a nervous way, and you could almost feel how his fingers were fiddling with the camera strap you’d noticed days ago.  

He licks his lips once before he’s talking, and you’re already ready to give him what he wants because you find the sight of him wholly pitiful.  “I just wanted to know if you might want to go around campus with me while I get more pictures?  I thought maybe you were bored, but this was a bad time, sorry.”  You can’t tell if his voice had wavered, or if his pitch had changed, but it was odd.  Maybe it was the steady flow of words, it was sort of a mouthful compared to his quiet demeanor.    

Your feet are on the ground, and something in your mind wants you to reach for his hands, but you don’t of course, you let them keep tapping a spastic beat against the camera.  “This is the best time,” you tell him honestly.  You’re surprised by your honesty in fact.  But walking around in his presence, knowing he’d thought of you to accompany him, that was more than enough.  

He leads you out of the room, and you can tell he’s feeling small from the way he’d almost broken down in front of you.  Maybe you’re using those words too freely.  You knew that, really, you’d been the one close to the edge, and he’d probably put himself right there with you in hopes of letting you know it was alright.  Maybe you were over thinking it.  But as you descended the stairs, you still felt the urge to hold one of his hands.  It was a pointless wish, his hands were already busy, keeping his camera in a firm grip, but not leveling it to his eyes for any sights.  

You don’t question his choice of location, but when you wind up in the hall leading up to the cafeteria, and he snaps the picture from there, of the great windowed walls that you adored, you felt closer to him again.  In the same sense that you’d felt drawn to him when he’d looked up to the sky on your first day here.  

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly as he finds his way back to the staircase, following him without any curiosity towards the next destination.  Knowing he’d taken that picture was enough for you.  

“No, it’s cool.”  You can’t even tell yourself that he doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand that you’re apologizing for the way you’d hated him to no end and had felt such a violent need to demonstrate it.  You know he gets it.  But the way he shrugs it off doesn’t sit well with you, and you try, keeping up with his rapid pace in the stairwell.  

“I really mean it.  I’d take it back in a heartbeat.”  

You arrive on ground level and he takes a turn towards some of the classrooms.  You recognize these to be in the older part of the building, with impressive high ceilings and noisy wooden floors.  

“I forgive you, but it didn’t do much to me, really.”  You find this a tiny bit infuriating, even as you watch him from the doorway of the classroom he’d picked out, flittering between replicas of different planets and readjusting his lens at every two steps.  

“I hated you,” you insisted, making sure that he understood just how heavy your sentiments had been.  How heavily you had to insist on your apology to restore a somewhat balance.  

“No.”  And he actually laughs as he shakes his head, locking his eyes with yours from across the room.  “You were just angry.  I mean, I think you’re just an angry person.”

“What!”  You’d really wish the outrage hadn’t slipped into your words, you would have made a more convincing case without the edge of it.  

You weren’t going to let him believe that he had you pegged when you were scrambling so badly just to get some idea of who he was.  

“You’re angry.”  He says again, but his eyes are no longer focused to yours, and his tone does sound almost apologetic.  You recognized the reluctance in his way, it was the sort of vibe you’d get from someone trying to back out of a statement they shouldn’t have made.  But you weren’t going to let this one slip.  

You try to find the right words.  Anything to get him to speak more clearly of what he thought he knew.  You don’t manage it, and eventually your pent up breath turns into, “How could I not be angry?”  And once again, everything seemed to climb at the surface and to twist painfully.  Your real friends were so far from you.  And you couldn’t manage to interact with the kids of your age that went to your school.  And you were so mean to them.  You just couldn’t get out of your mind, everything quickly pressing down on you.  

“Hey, it’s fine to be angry.”  You almost jump out of your skin when he materializes next to you, and it takes you a moment or two to understand it’s not just his intimate way of interacting that was giving you the feeling of physical contact, he was actually pressing his hand to your shoulder.  It was almost too much honestly, and you had to bite down the urge to turn on your heel and to get out of there, go see if the cafeteria was serving already.  Be alone again.

“But it’s probably like clogging up all the rest of your emotional shit, yeah?  If I were you, I’d just feel wholly angry, and then I’d let it go.  Just feel it and then move on.”  

You laugh, but you’re not so sure it’s really any different from sobbing.  “How do you suggest I do that exactly?”  

You catch the way his eyes snap upwards in surprise.  He’d probably thought he had messed up when expressing himself.  But you could see how he was right, you’d probably understood all of that even before meeting him.  You couldn’t let your feelings go and they grew on you and they restrained you, and you’d just about had enough.  You try to ignore the fondness that crashes into you again at his careful proximity and hesitant ways, you ignore the thought of grabbing his hand.  But that was perfectly acceptable; because he moved to grab your hand first.  

He was almost racing now, pulling you along and not leaving any indication to his trajectory.  You don’t recognize the door he chooses next.  And you stand back as he pulls a garbage can out of the classroom facing the particular dark door, when he throws it open and jams the door to remain opened with the garbage can, you breathe in deeply.  

He didn’t hold you by the hand to drag you outside, but you’d almost pushed him out of the way to get outside first.  You recognize this as the front of the building, catching sight of the hill that led up to it, but you didn’t really understand where you’d come out from.  It takes you a few more moments to accept that you were standing in the now empty parking lot.   

When he clears his throat, you bring your arms back down from how you had extended them out, letting the upcoming night’s wind immerse your senses.  

“Right, you should scream.”   

“Man, that’s so typical, I really doubt it would work.”  

You don’t sound too confident, and he probably takes advantage of that, shrugging his shoulders as if it was no big deal at all.  You think you’re almost startled into a heart attack when he cups his hands around his mouth and lets out a terrible roar.  

You don’t think you’ve ever heard his voice any clearer, as if he always borrowed a different pitch of voice to communicate with others.  But this time you let yourself look over at him with all of the fondness that you felt.  He doesn’t stop screaming to ask for your opinion, so you join him in his shout.  

You have no idea how your scream ever came out, but you don’t either register when he stops screaming, only keeping your voice loud and angry no matter the outside world.  He laughs when you finish up, camera leveled to his eyes.  

He tells you, “I needed to portray you as you really are, dude.”  

And you’re laughing terribly genuinely at that claim.  

“Come on, let me get a picture of you to show your doting guardian just how happy you were here.”  

He doesn’t look nearly as smug as he hands the camera over, not even bothering to show you how to use it.  Doesn’t matter really, you take a guess at it, stepping back, and trying to catch some of the grandiose building in the background.  

“Oh, hey, champion, where’s your medal anyway?”  You’re reminded of your thought from earlier, and you think to yourself that it’s too bad you were the only one there to see him accept the medal.  

You’re incredibly surprised when he pulls the medal out of his short sleeved hoodie’s pocket, and you take the picture just as he puts the medal around his neck.  

“There, I portrayed you as you really are as well.”  You spent the next few minutes making faces at each other, before deciding that your hunger had officially announced the cafeteria’s opening hour.  

 

 

\------------------

On the flight back home, you slept.  You slept through the liftoff of the plane, and through the landing too.  Your flight neighbor had shaken you awake.  You’d had your precious window seat for the ride, and you were of course, grateful for that much, but you hadn’t found any way to fully enjoy it, instead leaning against the small window to sleep the trip away.  During the trip, you did not find yourself to be angry, not once.  It was as if you had been sapped of your energy, and you were sleep walking through the event.  

You had a moment to remember how you had been planning to completely snob your father until he would break and profusely apologize to you.  This detail dawns to you when you spot his hat moving towards you amongst the crowds of different people welcoming family or friends back home.  You try to reel up your anger on the spot.  It does not work.  

You don’t manage to refuse and remain stoic to his hug.  Because you hug him first.  You hug him tightly, you hug him like you hadn’t in years, clinging to him fully, not even greeting him with any spoken word.  And as if all those times you’d kept yourself from crying, the day you’d left your home, and every day you’d spent away from it, had stayed coiled up inside of you; you melted into tears.  Crying loudly into your father’s chest, in public, hands clenched tightly into the fabric of his light jacket.  You cry until you feel a bit dizzy from lack of breathing.  And you do have to focus on breathing for a minute or two after your father pulls you back.  

You don’t remember crying like that in years.  

You still don’t remember to be angry, but the tears do keep on pouring out as your father asks you a thousand different questions.  You do your best to try to answer them, adding in little ‘I’m ok’s in between every other question.

You find yourself rubbing at your eyes profusely the whole time you wait with your father for your suitcase, and the whole time it takes to find the car, and the whole car ride back home too.  The pressure inside of your skull seems to go up the more you cry, but you let it happen, not hiding your sobbing face even once.  

When you arrive home, there is a welcome cake waiting for you, and your father pours you lemonade into your favorite glass.  You eat your slice of cake and it makes you cry even more.  Your father keeps repeating to you that he’s so happy you’re home, so happy to see you again, so proud you’d done so well this week.  Unsurprisingly, you feel emotionally exhausted, and you can’t come to explain why you were so upset, he doesn’t push you to explain though, and hugs you once more when you stand up after the afternoon cake snack.   

He’s cooking your favorite for supper, and you’re grateful.  You go through every room of your house, reminding yourself that this was home, and that you were so happy that you were back as well.  But every time you repeat that sentence, more tears come up. 

Your father hoists your suitcase up the stairs and into your room, and tells you he will be in the kitchen if you need anything, he then leaves you alone with your thoughts, and you breathe deeply.  You glance at your computer, and you’re surprised you didn’t trick your father into letting you log online quicker.  Even as you question that though, you feel you’d rather go take a warm bath than to take the seat facing your computer.  

When you put two and two together and understand that you’d just cry harder if you took a bath right now, what with the water covering the sound, you decide to try to log in.  Some part of you knows that it’s not the best of ideas; because you’re going through something emotionally right now, and when you put something down on the internet, then it would be out there, for good.  

You still log into pesterchum.  Both Jade and Rose seem to jump at you when you do, and you try to tell them politely that you were completely exhausted, but you still smile as you explain to them that you couldn’t wait to catch up with them.  It’s odd to see the older messages above the steady income of new, and you’re reminded of the state you’d left your friendships in when you’d left on the previous week.  Dave’s panic over you leaving seems so distant now, as if you’d never even heard of it from Rose.   

The boy in question isn’t online, and you hover your cursor over his handle a few times, as if this would reanimate it.  You open his chat window anyway.  You probably shouldn’t, and he’ll be confused when he finally gets your stream of messages, you know you’re not in your right state, but for some reason, you still do.  Leaving message after message in between replies with the girls.  

EB: hey, dave, so the girls told me you haven’t come home yet...  
EB: i’m really pumped for you to come back though!  
EB: listen, i didn’t mean to seem distant when you told me about you leaving.  
EB: or if i’ve been acting distant lately.  
EB: i really don’t want to distance myself or anything, i love you guys so much.  
EB: you’re all really important to me, you included.  
EB: i haven’t told the others about this, so feel special, alright?  but i’ve just been going through some stuff.  
EB: it’s nothing really, i’ve turned the page now.  
EB: i’m sorry i didn’t open up to any of you about it.  i know i can trust you with this stuff.  
EB: i just really appreciate you, ok?  and i’m sorry if that hasn’t been clear.  i’m really looking forward to spending the rest of our summer together in any case.

Nothing else comes to mind, and you read over what you’ve left nervously because it’s already posted now.  But you do breathe a sigh of relief.  You were home again.  And you weren’t going to let things get as bad as they had been this year again, you were in control now.  

By the time you do take your bath, you’ve stopped crying.  And when Dave does log in later, you’re smiling from ear to ear.  

 

 

\------------------

Dave had been planning to return home Friday afternoon.  He’d texted his brother with the precise information as soon as he’d received the schedule for the week.  The sooner he could get home, the better.  Not that he wasn’t enjoying his experience, but on the social aspect, it wasn’t exactly a hoot.  Truthfully, he would have loved to depart Thursday night, knowing there were no lessons in sight for the Friday.  But he’d imagine that to be slightly impolite, and he at least wanted to leave a good impression with the supervisors.  He hadn’t announced it to his sibling yet, but he was sort of counting on coming back on the following year.  

But there had been a change of plans.  He was going to sacrifice his early return home.  When he’d sent the text off at some stupid hour of the night on Thursday, he’d received a text asking just why he’d chosen to change the date.  He’d answered that it was a show of solidarity, and then had received a teasing text about budding new friendships.  He didn’t bother to correct his brother.  

As he waited, that Saturday morning, under the harsh sun; the boy he’d supported already gone in the van heading to the airport, he couldn’t help but to worry himself to no end.  If he was sometimes peeved by the fear of his friends abandoning him to himself, he was intensely worried of putting them through the same treatment.  He was sure he’d be worried for the entirety of the upcoming long drive.  He was ready to start pulling strands of hair out when a familiar car steered into the street.  

That was his saving grace.  That it was not his brother’s friend driving up the road, as he’d of course expected, but instead, his very own brother’s car stopped in front of him.  He made his way around the car in no time, banging at the driver’s window angrily.  

“Why didn’t you tell me?”  He whined loudly, still throwing fists at the window as it was rolled down.  The older Strider leaned an elbow out of the car, flashing a warm smile as he tipped his hat downwards in greeting.   

“Bro, I hate you, god, god, god I hate you.”  

“Yeah, I love you too, come here.”  

He knew then that his brother wasn’t messing with him, that he could see how truly excited Dave was to have him here.  So he shuffled forward and bowed his head down as his guardian patted his head affectionately, his definite version of a hug.  

“Did you miss me so much you had to see me right away?”  He tried hopefully.  

He couldn’t tell if the other was being honest with him as he answered, “You caught me, kid,” but it made him feel good nonetheless.  

He stood there, in the middle of the deserted street, smiling stupidly, just long enough to forget about his hurry to get home, and to suddenly remember it too.  

“Could you drive over the speed limit?”  He called out as he raced back around the car, slipping into the familiarly warm car with a smile he could’t quite tone down yet.  

“Dave.  Following the law is cool.”  Dave was still smiling as he gave him the icily serious look though, and the boy’s typical retort that should have been, ‘Breaking the law is totally uncool,’ did not come.  Instead he only grinned largely, not bothering to tell him more about his trip than what he had provided over the week over text messages, but absolutely beaming with the idea of returning home.  

“Don’t tell me a week away from home has already shaped you into a delinquent?”  

“Come on, Bro, drive!”  Was his only reply as he rolled down his side’s window and stared out at the landscape as it began to blur away.  

Over the course of the trip, Dave found every way to count down the time until he could find refuge into his bedroom.  Multiplying seconds, tracing the sun’s path in the sky, counting every breath he’d be able to take until he could show up for his friends.  Would they even be online?  Would he be able to make it in time?  It wasn’t as torturous of a trip as he thought it might turn out to be.  He spent the majority of it trying to outdo his brother in musical taste, swapping iPods constantly and searching through playlists.  And when his brother proposed they stopped somewhere to see how many ribs they could eat to themselves, he’d gone with it and had even enjoyed their time in the restaurant.  

Any stress that he felt towards facing his friends, even though it was as far away as truly facing as he could get, only came back to the surface when he’d pulled into the familiar streets of his neighborhood.  Their musical showmanship had turned to a sadder palette of music, and the lights of the city felt so melancholic against the new night sky.  He could distinctively feel the way self-consciousness was crawling its way up his skin.  

Once they’d parked, Dave had claimed he wanted to take the stairs, as a favor to how dead his legs felt with the ride, his brother hadn’t protested it, had simply taken the boy’s backpack into the elevator with him.  The younger Strider reckoned that he must have known he wanted some space to himself; because truly that’s what it was about.  

It took considerably longer to get up the stairs than it usually did, and he would have found it pretty funny how he’d tried to rush his brother’s driving for the last few hours, and now was delaying the moment he’d get back into his things; his thoughts kept him from finding that particular humor though.  He’d usually scurry up these stairs, timing himself to get quicker and quicker, always arriving at the end with a breath he almost couldn’t catch.  But this time, he took the steps one at a time, in a heavy pace that had his thighs protesting.  

Every other one of his thoughts was how much that kid from camp, that kid who shared his first name with his own personal best friend, had completely despised him from the very first second.  It had never truly occurred to him that he might veritably come face to face one day with his long time buddies.  The new thought of it was completely agonizing now though, what if he hit on every single nerves of his friends like he had done this week?  What if, simple elements that made him who he was, like his shades, had his closest friends turning away in distaste.  And what if he’d already managed to do that just with his shortly announced absence.  

Once at his apartment’s door, he was moody and somber, and only a tiny bit thankful that his roommate looked the other way to let him find solace in his bedroom.  There was no true solace though, and the minutes drew out impossibly so when he’d first hesitated to turn on his computer, and then sign in, and then open what seemed to be new messages from John.

Not the John who hated him, the John who sort of liked Dave, the one who he meant something to; or so he hoped desperately so.  

When he opens the window, his eyes sweep over the screen too quickly, and he’s left with different possibilities for what he’d just read.  The next two times he reads them, it’s slower, more deliberate.  In the end, he doesn’t manage to answer right away, even when his screen presented a new message  EB: oh dave, you’re home!

It takes him several more minutes to get over his emotions, and he even has to take a few steps away from his desk, sinking into his bed in one quick motion.  His heart was beating fast now.  He didn’t really even understand most of what John had left him, nor was it incredibly heartfelt.  But something snapped into place in that very moment, and he was left clutching at his chest, affection rushing through him at an intensity he had not yet felt before.  

 

\------------------

David had eaten with you for your last supper away from home.  He did not speak to you, and you did not speak to him, but you stayed together anyway.  He even accompanied you to go brush your teeth later in the night, still not talking, and still not looking your way.  But you felt overwhelmingly connected to him.  Especially when you’d returned to the bedroom, and it was only the two of you.  And that he took the bed underneath his top bunk for his slumber, the one you’d curled up in earlier in your defeat.  You hadn’t said anything, but you’d chosen to sleep in the bed underneath yours as well.  

As you drift off to sleep, you belatedly realize that, as where you’d rushed to get your upper bed; because those were the ones you liked, he must have waited for the last pick, not ever really talking to others, you recall.  Possibly, he preferred the bottom bunk.  

When you awake in the middle of the night, he’s sleeping soundly, shades still resting next to his head on the pillow, almost preciously.  However, tonight, he’d slept facing you.  And you had as well, you realize.  Something in your gut assures you that there is a very special bond, a connection, in between the two of you.  And you desperately try to stay away from thinking that this feeling is unrequited.   

The last thing he tells you, still accompanying you up until that moment, at those intimidating front doors, to let you join the group traveling to the airport, the moment when you just can’t pull back how shocked you are that he isn’t part of the group, “Come on, that rumor about me hitchhiking was the only one you didn’t spread yourself.”  

You don’t really know what you should pull from that last sentence.  Should you concentrate on that detail, that he’d hopped into a stranger’s car to get here?  Or that he was painfully conscious of how you’d tried so hard to be against him?  Or even, that he’d heard when the other boy in the room had gossiped about it, back on the very first night...  The statement leaves you with mixed feelings, and as if your chest was suddenly burdened with a very hollow feeling.  You also desperately try to stay away from thinking that this is truly the last moment you will see him.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone who is reading <3 Sorry for the slight wait!


	7. Planetary Fall

If you’d ever believed in fate, it could not have possibly lasted until now.  If you had been a person of faith, simply leading your life with instinct and feeling as your compass, you do believe you would be utterly crushed by now.  Your entire system of belief would have deteriorated over the years.  Luckily, you don’t really look into those sorts of things.  Sure, the paranormal as far as spirits go and all are completely captivating.  But on a spiritual level, the whole idea of destiny and the likes are wasted on you.  

It’s not that you think David, the boy with all the answers that you’d met when you were only thirteen at space camp, is your soulmate.  No, you don’t believe in that concept...  You do however, want to spend time with him, you want it excessively and abundantly.  You think it’s simple; you just want to be around him.  And there is no one else who occupies that sort of pedestal in your mind, there was no one you desperately wanted to be around like this.  It had taken some time to admit.  But you do remember that by the time the summer after the one where you’d first met him came, you’d decided to fly off states away to ignore lessons about the universe all day long once more.  You don’t believe in fate.  And you don’t know how you’d known that you could see him again if you were to go to that specific week.  

It was your motivation to request leaving for the camp, even though there was no need for you to leave that time.  You’d sorted yourself out.  You were doing a lot better.  But you’d still gone, without hesitation, with the knowledge that he’d be attending again.  You know that fate isn’t a thing because when you’d signed up for a different program than the first time you’d gone, you had landed yourself into a program that was not his.  And your interactions had been limited to your intense staring whenever he was nearby, which was not an awful lot.  At least you’d seen that he was still treating those shades with utmost respect and adoration.  He was taller you think, or his voice was different, but he was only a little different.  And by the end of that particular week, you had settled with yourself that it wasn’t like some force of the universe wanted you to seek him out.  But that you, personally, would want to get closer to him.  

The following year was much the same.  Once again, fate had proved to be nothing at all, when you did correctly decipher which program he would sign up for that time, and had only managed to find yourself in a team that did not include him.  He wasn’t one of your roommates either.  You’d grown only mildly frustrated, a significant improvement from the way you’d held yourself when you were younger, when you’d first met him.  

Last year, you’d opted to stay home.  You would take your driving lessons, and you wouldn’t waste a week daydreaming while the boy was under the same roof as you, but never made a move to find you, to look your way, for anything.  You’d regretted it.  And you don’t know if it had anything to do with your online friends being busy, or your friends from around town just being extremely irritating, but there was nowhere you wanted to be rather than closer to him.  

So this year, you’d signed up, and your father had told you you were growing up to be a fine young man; you didn’t really have anything to say to that, but you gave him the warmest smile you could muster.  You don’t know what it is.  At least you aren’t obsessive.  It’s not as if you spend every waking hour wondering about where he must be, and what he could be doing...  But you do wonder from time to time.  Whenever you stop at the coffee shop a block away from your school, and get your hot chocolate to go, you wonder what he would get if he were there.  If maybe, he was the sort of quirky person who drank warm beverages in the summer, and cool ones in the winter.  Or whenever you’re forced into buying new clothes and shoes before the start of the year, you wonder which items would attract his eye, or which shops he’d stop at.  You wondered, most of all, if he spent as much time looking up at the sky as you do.  

You guess you could say that you’re interested in who he is.  And that’s what had led you here this year.  And fate wasn’t a thing, but you’d chosen the right program again.  Fate wasn’t a thing, and he hadn’t been sorted into your team, and though there were only two rooms of boys from your program, the girls outnumbering you easily, he was in the other one, and you never get the chance to see if he sleeps in the same way he used to.  

There was no such thing as fate, there was drive.  Today had not been an event you had planned for however, and the coincidence makes you extremely happy.  You hadn’t even known the name of the new planetarium a few hours away from your location, but when there had been the announcement on Sunday, David had known its exact name off the top of his head.  It had opened only a few weeks ago, you understood, and guessed he must have known just from reading it in a scientific magazine or something of the sort.  You hadn’t understood why it had been your program that had been selected to go, you mean, sure you guys were almost the seniors, but there was a group of freshly graduated twelfth graders as well.  Later, you guess that their group just wasn’t large enough to fill up the bus.  And even later in the week, you seem to understand that the program you’d picked was the most relatable to outer space.  

The details didn’t really matter; the thing was that on this day long trip, amongst the forty or so students, one of them was the boy you chased after constantly, who had last spoken to you four years ago, but who’d occupied your mind on too many occasions.  

It was a Wednesday, and that mere fact had convinced you that today would be the day that you would earn his friendship; after all it was on a Wednesday the first year that he’d seemed to warm up to you.  Maybe warm up was a tad bit generous, but it had been something of the sort anyway.  You would have willingly been the first one to hop  into the bus, to make sure to find a place near him.  Unfortunately, to know that place, you had to wait for him to enter the bus first.  He hadn’t changed much though, and typically let others pick first, making him the penultimate student to enter the bus, and you, the very last one.   

He’d slid into the seat behind the driver without hesitation, and you were left with the opposite amount of hesitation.  You could try to take the seat next to him, but that seemed just a bit too suffocating.  The other nearest seat was three benches back, and since you recognized the girl sitting there as someone you got along with, you’d finally decided to occupy that one, and convinced said girl to slip to the aisle seat so that you could look out the window.  

You weren’t that disappointed that you couldn’t be near him in the end, like most of the teenagers aboard, you napped for a while.  A four hour drive was long, especially considering that you’d have to make the same one back.  And especially because it meant only a small afternoon of exploring a place that might just as well be any other boring museum, but you still took it as an opportunity to perhaps introduce yourself into that one boy’s life.  When you’d awoken, noticing the outskirts of the city and knowing you’d successfully slept through almost the entire trip, you’d stretched your neck to see if he was collapsed against the window sleeping.  He wan’t, his head was angled downwards and it was enough of a mystery for you to hop over your friend (startling her awake as well) and making your way to the bus driver.  

You ask the driver how much farther it’ll be, but it’s the two chaperones that had come with you, seated on the opposite aisle from David who answer you.  You nod with great interest, and something inside of you has been grateful for a while now that you no longer feel like the black sheep amongst the other kids, that the people watching over you could come to appreciate you as much as they could anyone else.  

Even though you’re avid to let them know you’re quite interested, your eyes linger towards David’s activities as you lean against his bench.  He’d scooted up to the window, as you had imagined, but he was scribbling away on a sheet of paper.  There are similar sheets piled up on the empty side of his bench, and you have to furrow your eyebrows at the enigma of these.  You see printed encircled numbers scattered across the pages, and hand drawn lines connecting them in a system you can’t come to guess.  

You open your mouth to ask him what those are, with all of the good mood you could possibly put into such a meaningless inquiry, but you opt against it just as words start shaping up on your lips.  You don’t really want to experience being ignored in front of the two, not so much older than you, adults who had answered you so politely.  So you ask them instead.  “What’s Dave doing?”   

And you try not to draw blood from the inside of your cheek at the realization that you were still messing up his name, even out loud.  No, especially out loud.  Only ever out loud, if you ever used the name Dave mentally, it was for someone extremely different than this person.  

“He’s playing bridges,” the one nearest you tells you, you think her name might be something like Stacey.  You almost fall over when you hear David’s voice, though you don’t really make out what it is because he just mumbles under his breath, and it doesn’t particularly sound like English.  

She smiles as she tells you, “Sudoku has the same publisher, it’s a logic game.”  Ah, that would make sense, you bet he’d just mumbled the game’s actual Japanese name instead.  You don’t comment on how you are so convinced the guy must be a genius.  Filling out a sudoku in the paper to distract yourself was one thing, playing some underground game, grid after grid it looked like, on the way to a planetarium, that was another thing.  

You thank them one last time before turning back and returning to your seat, but not without sending one last hopeful look towards the boy.  You noted how he didn’t trace his lines very straightly, but how quickly he decided which ones to trace, and that deep sense of wanting to be with him settled heavily onto your shoulders as you walked away.  

It doesn’t take much longer to arrive.  You’re not extremely impressed by the building, it seems pretty typical.  Considering that it’s new, it does make sense the architecture isn’t exactly revolutionary in your eyes.  The lobby is much the same, just as sterile looking as the exterior, but you do like how clean everything seems to be; a lot of light streams into the building and it’s nice on the white surfaces.  

You don’t do much listening as some lady introduces you to the facility, you don’t even stay still when they ask you to in the aims of counting the number of students, you do follow the flock though, in a badly concealed attempt to stay close to that one person.

And despite all the growing up that you’d done, you still aren’t able to pay attention to much of anything; the darkness does however hit you quite strongly when you all step through the threshold and into the exposition room.  

There are probably some interesting things exposed; because you do catch sight of some girls in the group trying to scurry away and though the various tables, but they’re hoarded back into the group.  There are lights projected here and there, but you’re much more concentrated with the darkness, an easy smile shaping onto your lips when you glance upwards, unable to differentiate the surrounding darkness with the ceiling.  You’re led into a corridor you hadn’t even noticed, and here the lights are intimate and much better adjusted to everyone’s eyes.  You get the distinct feeling that you are being led into a theatre, and indeed the employee leading you suggests that everyone takes off their shoes to better enjoy the experience of the show.  

You eye David when he’s the only one not to bend over or to take a seat to remove his shoes, and then take a good look at his shoes.  His boots are laced far up and you can only imagine it would take some time to get them on, or to get them off of course, you also have to sigh hopelessly at his choice of summer footwear.  Your Converses are holed and ratty compared to his shoes, but you keep them on, in a show of solidarity, you’re sure.  

You lean against the wall as you wait for further instruction, understanding the current situation in delay as you often do.  There are currently two shows at the planetarium, and you get to view both, and are waiting outside of the theatre-like room for the next showing to start.  The employee who had led you here tried to entertain the group in vain, asking pop quiz styled questions about space.  

He’s impressed with the knowledge of the group, but you find it embarrassing that he’d be surprised that the batch of kids from a summer camp week about space actually knew common facts about it.  He ups the game until the only one left with the answers is David.  And everyone cheers him on and watches in amusement as he never lets a single question slip.  By the time you can finally enter the room, the employee was patting David on the back and the boy looked absolutely embarrassed.  You were probably the most amused, smiling brilliantly at the praiseful looks he had received as he had answered.  

As the exit of the room drains out the previous visitors, you don’t waste the second opportunity of the day, and convince yourself that you’ll take a seat next to David, no backing up this time.  That said, you do just stare around for some time before remembering that; the room clearly constructed as a half sphere impressing you to no end.  It takes you a while to register that the movie you’d be visioning would be projected onto the domed surface, and you don’t even try to understand how they would go about doing that.  But you do hesitate a little more when you also pick up on the softness of the flooring and the lack of seats, you were expected to lay down apparently.  

You find David, sitting up and glancing around curiously without a problem, and you take the spot next to him as if it belonged to you.  He doesn’t acknowledge you, but he doesn’t inch away either; once again it looked as if your presence meant virtually nothing to him.  You don’t find it in you to care this time.  He meant something big to you and you’d be damned if you were going to let him get away without you becoming something to him too.  It was just a question of time, you knew that.  And four years of letting him climb higher and higher up in your vision of life could excuse you taking the place next to him.  

You’re one of the first to lay down, and you’re surprised at how comfortable you are here; maybe it had helped that he had gone for the center spot, and that strikes you as different from him.  Taking the spot that he wanted.  You don’t really bother yourself with reasoning it out, you simply sink down, quietly enjoying that you'd done it, you’d gotten that much closer, and he wasn’t going to stop you.  That slow buzzing of joy only intensifies when he leans down onto his elbows, until he too is on his back, eyes fixated upwards, and puts his head down onto the cushioned floor, a mere inch or so away from yours.  

The lights dim until you find yourself in the dark, only able to orientate yourself with the heat of his shoulder near yours, and by then your group has fallen into a hushed silence.  You know you’re not the best when it comes to listening, but for once, you’re able to sense the mood without first stumbling through confusion.  Though you might have expected some documentary about planets or such, projected in an artistic way, it’s clear as images come to life around you and with the very first note of music that resounds, that this is much more of a spatial poem than it is a documentary.  It takes you a couple of bars before you recognize one of your favorite composers, and you’re already captivated, as a sky shapes up atop you and around you.  You don’t know if you want to call it superior to your every day sky, but it felt just within reach, as if there was nothing else but the sky in the entire world.  

The rush of happiness that hit you was unlike any you’d experienced in your life, and you’re honestly surprised at how subtle the feeling is.  The wellbeing that you felt was almost lingering in your very core, not making its presence too sharply known.  But as the show hit crescendo, and you felt as if you were weaving in between celestial objects, your smile was utterly uncontrollable.  The only thought that floated within you was that you were falling through the sky.  You were falling through the sky and you could not begin to imagine anything that could surpass that.  The urge to hold David’s hand didn’t even announce itself in your head, it only reminded you softly that he was there too, and foregoing the descent through the imaginary sky that seemed to swallow you whole, you roll your head over.  His shades are hoisted up, resting atop his head, and for the very first time, with the lights of the show, you could make out his face.  

You don’t know how to describe the new zones of his face, the ones you hadn’t really seen wholly until now, but you do know there is a quality to them that is pulling you in.  Something in the curve of his eyelashes, or maybe his cheekbones, or maybe it was his eyebrows.  Or maybe it was his eyes, as red as any stars the film would zoom into, bright and happy and absorbing.  That’s when you note his truly huge smile, and that’s when you turn back to watching what was really supposed to captivate the audience; because the idea of his happiness has your heart racing and you simply have to look away.  

You don’t really understand it when the music reaches a conclusion, nor when the lights melt off the domed structure until it is replaced with the soft hues that had welcomed you into the room at first.  You don’t really recall how long the first show was supposed to last, but your guess was something like half an hour.  And that had easily been only a minute for you.  And so even as you hear others pick themselves up the floor, excited commentaries ringing left and right, you don’t yet react.  Even as some ask out loud about the music, and this could be your chance to slide yourself into the conversation and impress everyone around with your extensive musical knowledge, you stay in place, looking up at a now lifeless ceiling, the one that had simply transported you not too long ago.  You felt stupidly happy.  

And so, ‘wow’, was the only word you were able to gather out of your thoughts, even though it was but a breath on your lips and nothing else.  You hear someone calling your name, and you laugh a bit too excitedly as you get up swiftly.  You’re reminded of your neighboring companion when you find him not yet departed either.  He seems to be stumbling to get back up from his knees though, and you wonder why.  You glance ahead to the exit, where you could make out your friends from camp slipping their shoes back on, and glance back just in time to see him stagger into a standing position.  

His shades had conveniently and evidently returned to their position, the one he’d maintained for years already, and his expression had melted back to his impassive ways.  But, not quite...   

“Hey, how are you holding up?”  

You don’t even get the chance to congratulate yourself on your  first time talking to him in years, or to freak out about it either; that had been on impulse, reacting to the sensation that something was wrong with him.  With the slow bobbing of his Adam’s apple, and the slight shake of his frame, and the unsettling paleness of his features.  You’re proven right in a matter of seconds though, as his hand closes around your arm in a death grip, and he hunches over, seeming to gain paleness still as a hand moved to cover his stomach.   

“Woah, yeah, ok.”  You’re not expecting for yourself to react immediately, and yet you do, wrapping an arm around him in return and leading him out of the pseudo theatre hastily, despite his weight leaning against you.  You maneuver him in between crouching students without a problem, pushing him forward as to avoid any curious and inquisitive glances.  You just wave over to Stacey as you pass next to her quickly.  “I have an intensely urgent bathroom situation, we have our tickets though, see you soon!”  

All in one breath, and the next you were gone, not bothering to keep yourself concentrated enough to pick up on any of her reply.  You step back into the darkness of the exposition, eyes dodging around for an illuminated sign directing towards the washrooms, though you do secretly keep a lookout for any other hallways leading into different venues; you had your ticket, but you didn’t know where you were going to next.  The bathroom came first though, and you wobbled over as you felt him heave against you, and you wished on all of your lucky stars for him not to throw up in the middle of the room.  

You make it in time though, and feel yourself ease up as you enter the bathroom.  It has that same quiet sterility as the lobby had, and you look around in appreciation, still elated from your past experience, even as David rushed into a stall and fell to his knees within seconds.  

From the sounds of it, you’re quite happy that you had taken this initiative, even though it involved things like talking to him and touching him; all of which you have not been doing at all in the last years.  But you momentarily congratulate your instincts as you follow after his steps, into the first stall, where he was profusely sick it seemed like.  You winced as you heard him regurgitate more and more.  You don’t quite remember him eating very much, and you worry where this is all coming from.   

“Hey, should I head over and tell Stacey and what’s his face that you’re feeling unwell?”  

The “Hell no!” that you hear is awfully weak and plainly croaked out.  You lean against the wall of the stall, watching him grip the toilet seat.  You think it’s kind of gross that he would do that, but then his head disappears again and you feel pangs of pity inside of your chest.  You’d like to move a little bit closer and rub his back, maybe push his hair back.  But you control yourself not to overstep that one line.  

You hadn’t realized how lost in thought and how quiet you truly were being until he snaps at you from his lamentable seat on the ground.  “And don’t you dare leave me!”  

“Oh my, it feels good to be needed.”  You chuckle, even though he looks like hell, even though he’d looked so happy just a little while ago and now seemed to be quite sick.  

You think he’s done by now, in any case you haven’t heard or seen him throw up anymore than he already had in the last few moments, and he’s turned towards you now, hands neatly on his lap instead of gripping the toilet as if it could save him.  

“You can’t tell anyone about this,” he wheezes out, and his continued seriousness makes your eyebrows twitch.  

This certainly was...  Different than what you’d anticipated to be your first reunion of friendship with him, but at the same time...  At the same time, you were remembering all at once what it was to feel close to him and to exchange with him, and it feels as if you’re swimming.  You’re not even sure why it’s the image that pops up to you, but it must have something to do with the flow of being with him, of acting and speaking without much thought put into it, only a naturalness that was a bit unfamiliar to your other social interactions.  

So you take the bait, going with that flow, wondering what it was that he meant by his words.  “Dude, we all get sick, we’ve all puked.  You aren’t going to be a pariah just from this, trust me.”  

“It’s not just sick, it’s fucking motion sickness.”  

He still looks as he’s about to tip over, even as he stands up, pushing his weight onto the wall as he lifts up his foot to flush the toilet.  You scrunch up your nose at the motion; you have a good number of friends who flush with their foot, and it makes the notion of you flushing with your hands that much more repulsive.  But you get over that disgust in no time as you watch him almost fall over when he tries to put his foot down.  You have no trouble believing his nausea, that was for sure.  

“It’s still pretty normal.  Man, that thing was like falling through the sky!”  You don’t keep yourself from sounding just as excited as you really are, hoping that he’ll catch on to your mood and perhaps bond with you.  God, you want him to bond with you.  

But he doesn’t look all that receptive as he shuffles his feet over to the sinks (you have to push yourself against the wall of his stall when he passed you so that he wouldn’t collide with you), you follow him, noting with amusement the exaggerated amounts of soap he pours from the dispenser.  

“Do you see anyone else puking up their breakfast?”  

Your eyes go skywards as you try to retrace the food you’d had today.  That’s right, you hadn’t had lunch yet, oh god, when was lunch going to be?  Maybe the bus would stop along the road and you’d get an awesome huge supper at a restaurant, instead of the disgusting cafeteria food.  If that were the case, you’re pretty positive everyone has already been made aware of it but you, by your own distracted fault probably.  You think of asking him about it, completely dismissing the fact that, after having to hunch over the public bathroom’s toilet, he might not be super willing to discuss choices of food.  It doesn’t matter, because he manages to speak up before you.  It doesn’t irk you, you’re excited to hear his voice, to have him talk.  

“Even if it had made other people sick, it doesn’t even matter.  You know what else makes me fucking sick?  Video games.  And not like, classy out of this world games, like first releases for the Nintendo Game Cube.” 

He seems angry, rubbing at his hands viciously under the no doubt scorching warm water (you had only seen him turn on the faucet for the hot water), but somehow, you can’t take it very seriously.  Even his swearing had rung out without much impact.  Maybe it was because you didn’t quite understand why he was upset, you just liked  the way he expressed himself, the example he’d used, the way he breathed; everything.  

“That’s adorable,” you slip out, without meaning to.  Only recalling that Super Mario Sunshine game, from when you were a kid and from when the specific console had been released.  And somehow, you can imagine him face planting into his bed, clutching at his stomach as the cheery little tunes from the game still played from his television, and it has you smiling, wishing you’d been around to play with him and to ease and soothe him when the motion sickness hit.  

“It’s not at all!”  

You look up sharply at the way he had said it, eyes finding his image in the surface of the mirror without a problem.  He was upset, and though you’d never been the quickest when it came to identifying others’ feelings, this time you had no doubt in mind.  He puts a hand up to his forehead, but it doesn’t do much to hide the storminess of his mood.  It breaks your heart a little that he might be too much of a perfectionist to let something seemingly so trivial go.  And so you resolve yourself to speak to him, to get to what he was truly feeling, because you want to be told that he was alright, that he didn’t over analyze his flaws too obsessively.  That thought makes your throat uncomfortably dry.  

“Does it really matter?”  

“You don’t understand.  Every time I get into the pilot seat I literally feel like acid is eating up my internal organs.  It’s so hard not letting anyone know and--”

You don’t mean to cut him off, but you piped up anyway, your face settling into an expression of awe.  “What, have you flown a plane before?”  And now you were imagining his guardian to be some woman overflowing with money who’d gotten her adoptive son a private jet he could fly over the city.  And, that’s totally a heap of bullshit, you soon find out.  

“More or less.  I’m in the air cadets and sometimes we do that sort of stuff.  And I mean, that’s the sort of stuff I do want to do, but it takes everything in me not to just vomit all over the controls.”  

Even as you press both your hands to your mouth, it still doesn’t stifle your laugh, and you know you shouldn’t be laughing, especially not with that dejected aura he’s projecting, but you laugh nonetheless, until your stomach hurts and he’s opted to sit atop the counter of sinks, rubbing his hands over the fabric of his jeans instead of seeking to dry them through traditional methods.  He doesn’t look too impressed with you.  

“I’m sorry, Dave, kids who are in the cadets are such losers, what the fuck.”  And whoops, there went his not name again.  You chant the name David a few times in your head as he replies, not nearly as pissed as you imagined he would be.  

“Says the guy who has gone to Space Camp four different times.”   

You stare at him in a way that should let him know that he’d just divulged too much information, but you don’t think that he really gets what you’re trying to convey.  He doesn’t get or guess the way your heartbeat had skipped at the notion that he’d noticed you well enough to know how many times you’d attended.  He might not have spoken to you, but maybe he had noticed you?  

“So you want to be a pilot?”  You ask him out of the blue, and he turns back to the mirror, pushing his hair back into place, as if wiping away the last evidence of his sickness.  And he looks good, he really does.  You know he can tell that you’re still staring at him, and you can’t think of what he might think of it.  

He shrugs, and you like the way his shoulder moves.  He tells you, “Something like that.”   

And when you follow him out of the washroom and he pushes the door open, you tell him, “You want to be an astronaut.”  

He doesn’t answer.  You think this time he might veritably be angry with you because when you try to get him to follow you, he doesn’t right away, as if not trusting that you knew where you were going.  You didn’t really, but you knew that it didn’t really matter and that the both of you were probably already late.  You wondered if being around him was similar to you feeling as if you were falling through the sky, if your grasp on time became nothing and minutes spent together felt like fragile seconds.

He does somewhat follow you in the end though, and walking alongside him in the near dark reminds you heavily of the first Wednesday you’d spent together, and that too makes you happy.  It doesn’t prove to be too challenging to find the room your group had disappeared into, you don’t even need to pull out your tickets when you make it to the doorway, both David’s and your matching red Space Camp shirts giving you away to be part of the group.  

The room is a bit similar to the last one, but at the same time very different.  Where it was also a half sphere, of about the same size, seats and seats encircled the center, resembling somewhat those of a movie theatre.   And in that center sat something you recognized to be a planetarium projector, and next to it stood a woman, you guess her to be an astronomy interpreter as she gestures and lectures the seated group facing her.  Not wanting to be in trouble, you slip yourself into the first row of seats adjacent to you, opposite the room from the other kids, and facing the back of the woman who was giving the lecture, explaining the constellations plastered to the ceiling.

You hadn’t been sure if David would follow your lead, but he ends up in the seat next of you.  Your happiness climbs up a little more, the connection in between you simply undeniable to you.  He wholly feels like your best friend, and you do feel a bit bad for your online friends, who had chatted you up for hours on end because this guy hasn’t spoken to you much at all, not anything significant anyway, but he still feels like your best friend.  And you don’t fight the feeling, letting your smile grow as you looked up to the projected stars, finding beauty in their positioning even without following the thorough explanations of their names and arrangements.  You loved the sky as it was; no explanations needed whatsoever.  

The lesson is interesting enough, or you think it is, whenever it zooms into a planet or a moon, or when pathways lit up to explain constellations.  You weren’t listening to a single word from the woman, though you could easily tell, even when distracted, that she wasn’t the best speaker.  

Truth be told, you’d expected David to be sitting at the edge of his seat, absorbing any extra information that he could, concentrating on all forms of knowledge.  And as you review his character, it suddenly makes sense for him to aspire to be something as highly achieving as an astronaut.  There is no doubt in your mind that he’d be the perfect candidate.  And you think your faith in that is justified by his hard work.  You glance over, wanting to share a secret smile with him, or something!

But you soon discover that he is doing much the opposite of what you’d imagined him to be doing.  He’s hunched over once again, over the opposite armrest from you, forehead pushed into his hand again, and arm conveniently wrapped around his stomach.  

“Pssst, you’re being pretty indiscreet about your little problem,” you whisper teasingly, lighting up when he merely groans at you.  

When no further answer comes, you try again, sigh light on your lips as you felt as if you were being blessed with the opportunity to rescue him from his unease.  

“Do I need to take you to the bathroom again?”  

He shakes his head no, and you glance up at the stars once more, sad that he was missing out on this.  

“You could lay down, no one’s near us.”  You continue hurriedly, dearly hoping this was soft enough of a whisper.  

He just seems to look around as if not understanding the possibility of laying down.  So you gesture for him to lift the armrest to his left as you lift up the one separating you.  He does it, probably to get you to shut up.  

And then you tell him, “Put your head on my lap.”  

And he hisses out for the first time so far, “Hell no, I’m not doing that!”  

“Dude, come on.”  

You were trying to think of it as not being weird.  But of course it wasn’t weird for you, it was just pleasant because you liked him way too much and you wanted him around, and you were a lot more than ok with him touching you.

He must be feeling still as sick as earlier, because it doesn’t take that long for him to give up and to flop onto his back, his head of pale, pale hair finding its way to your thighs.  You can tell that he shuts his eyes and tries to concentrate on his breathing; because honestly you’re concentrating on his breathing too.  His knees are bent, feet firmly on the seat as he rested on you.  His arms were still wrapped over his stomach, so you knew he must have been feeling shitty.  But you were feeling great.  And finally, you pushed his hair back, as you’d wanted so badly to do in the bathroom.  And as soon as you did, your hand did not stray away, petting his hair as if he truly were your best friend and as if you had the rights to be acting in such a way with him.  

But he says nothing, he stays put, and so you never quite stop, your fingers carding into his hair over and over again as you went back to watching the presentation.  

At one point, he shifts atop you, and you hear his groan, and you feel so bad for how upset his stomach must be feeling.  You feel so bad that eventually, you rest your free hand over his stomach for him, and still he says nothing, and yet you’ve never felt so close to someone as you do now.  Probably because you haven’t shared anything this physically intimate yet.  You can make out his eyes underneath his shades, gazing up at you with an emotion you could not pick up on.  

But it makes you feel important, alive, present.  And so you whisper again, looking back up to the projections.  “I’m so happy you haven’t changed.”  You have no idea where that came from.

“I got braces a few months ago.”  

And your laugh is really hard to contain again.  He must be the only seventeen year old to only just start orthodontic treatment.  You whisper for him to prove it; because, nope, you hadn’t even picked up on it.  

He doesn’t just present his teeth though, he smiles.  And you think you might melt.  You’re not sure if you’re right because the room is fairly dark, but they look blue.  You ask him, just underneath your breath what his favorite color is.  He tells you blue, or maybe orange.  And you have to tell him that those two colors are opposites, and, you are so, so afraid that you are suddenly falling in love with him.  And it was all your fault.  

For the rest of your planetarium visit, he avoids you, or you avoid him, you’re not so sure.  All you’re sure about is that you had stupidly tried to soothe him by petting his hair and stomach, and if that wasn’t all sorts of creepy, you’re not so sure what might classify as it.  

You busy yourself with other people, and you do find out that you’re eating in the outskirts of the city later, and try to feel excited about that.  But you’re not.  You feel strange.  

And when finally the sun starts setting and the visit is finally reaching its conclusion, you wish you could skip over the trip, and the supper and just fall into your bed and try to forget about your feelings.  

You’d forgotten to check if David had taken the same seat again, because when you climb into the bus and head for your seat, he’s sitting there.  You try to ignore the small hope that he’d actually noticed your spot earlier, and wanted to sit with you.  You also completely ignore the fact that you won’t be getting the window seat, already ecstatic with getting to sit by him.  

He doesn’t say a word to you though, and as the bus heads out, sun slowly fading from sight, he scoots right over and puts his head on your shoulder, promptly falling asleep.  It’s a short drive to the restaurant.  But you find the courage to put your hand into his as he sleeps, and your chest tightens with the revelation that, yes, you might just be in love.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone who is reading, and extra thank you to any feedback! :)


	8. Abyssal Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it might be time for a change of perspective?!?! :)

Today, you had a free day.  In past years, you’ve developed the tendency of overbooking and over-scheduling systematically.  You’ve done enough introspection to admit to yourself that you are rather not fond of new experiences.  In many cases, you’d really just rather stay at home and avoid interacting too much.  You’ve also found that through keeping yourself incredibly busy, you don’t really find the time to back away from your fears.  And so, despite feeling uncomfortable with too much social interaction, you find yourself in the midst of it constantly.  

Today should have been a busy day too.  And on almost every single occasion that you’ve had to book an appointment with your orthodontist, you’d managed to get it squeezed into one of your free periods or right at the start of the day, with enough of a gap for you to make it to your first class of the day without too much of a hard time.  

Today is a Wednesday, and being the middle day of the week, you actually do have quite an amount of things to do.  And somehow...  You’d booked your appointment in the middle of the day, using it as a convenient excuse to skip out on your morning classes, and also, miraculously, your afternoon classes.  You get your brother to call you in as sick for the rest of your activities.  It took a particular long whiny speech for him to cave in, not wanting to call in your place now that you were so old.  But you were much too busy running your tongue over your teeth to go help kids with homework, or try to survive a swimming lesson.  (You really are trying to improve, but you probably remain the single most uncoordinated swimmer around.  But it’s one of those rare things that count as sport and that doesn’t involve any balls threatening your life.)  

To be fair, you think you might deserve a break!  The last few years have sort of been a rush, and you can find nothing better to celebrate the removal of your braces than a day off.  It hadn’t really been a painful experience, you’d barely had them for a few months, only on your top row of teeth too, it was really minor.  But you’d been a bit embarrassed that you’d had them at such an age.  You had had the hardest time waiting for your baby teeth to fall out, and it had pushed away all orthodontic work to entire months after your seventeenth birthday.  

It might be silly, considering you’d gotten your older brother to baby you all day long, from driving you to and back from the orthodontist and making all your phone calls, to ordering you your favorite type of pizza.  He hated how plain the margarita pizza was, but it was the only one you could truly stand.  And so, maybe you have no right to feel this way, but you still feel as if today, removing those embarrassing braces, you have taken the last step into becoming an adult.  Your birthday is actually still a little way off, only a month or so away, but you can no longer wait.  You feel as if you’ve become an adult.  And you feel surprisingly good about yourself, almost invincible.  

You think that, as a rule, you don’t let on much as to how you truly feel about yourself.  You also think that that is mostly due to keeping yourself busy.  So you’re not really sure where your self-esteem indicator is really pointing to, but taking a breather today, and still feeling good about things, is a nice surprise.  

So maybe, just maybe you’re getting ahead of yourself today.  You’re not sure, but you steal the last slice of pizza from beneath your brother’s fingertips, and all he does is pat you on the shoulder.  And that had seemed to solidify enough the idea that today, you were totally invincible, ready to take on just about anything, even though you were just bumming around at home.  

The night is still very young when you start spamming your friends with messages of appreciation over your pesterchum application on your phone.  They’re totally uncool things, randomly telling them how much you love them and appreciate them before they get back online.  They know it’s not totally uncommon of you anyway, it happens to you from time to time to completely burst out with these comments that were just a bit too appreciative.  But maybe this time it was just a little bit over the top because it isn’t sandwiched in between indifferent comments as many other times have been.   

You just had to get it out there though.  You love your friends.  You love, love, love your friends.  And you didn’t really mind that you’d never met them face to face.  If anything, you were even grateful for that.  Though you’re fairly sure not many share this opinion, you’ve decided that the internet is just about the best way to make friends.  After all, there were just some things that were made possible to reveal over the web that weren’t so conveniently done in every day life.  You continue to think that these people, who don’t know the first thing about you as a person out and about in the world, know the most about who you really feel you are.  And they’d been around and present for you throughout so many years, you couldn’t even tell yourself that you’d grown up anywhere else but alongside them.  Today, your temporary braces have come off, and you feel grown up and ready enough to completely invade your best friends’ time with words and messages of love.  

In between Jade’s joyous replies and excited comments on just about every line of the stuff you’d left her, and Rose’s definitely more composed congratulations on the removal of the despised braces (just about the only one of your friends who’d remembered the date, but to be fair, the only one who’d known of their existence), John manages to log in and to knock you down a couple notches off the invincibility ladder.  

EB: dave!  it’s always great when you’re in a good mood.   
EB: and you’re seriously my best bro and i’m really happy i know you too and all that stuff.    
EB: but i have to be honest with you here, i really don’t think i can return your feelings.  

You have to sink a bit into the futon when you start getting his replies, subtly sending glances over your shoulder to make sure your brother wasn’t picking this moment to sneak up on you and to check your messages.  The coast is clear, but your airway doesn’t really feel all that clear.  As uncool as it sounds, you’re pretty sold on the idea that John has always been well aware of how much you honestly love him, he never made you feel uncomfortable about it though.  For a little while now, maybe since summer, he has been dropping a lot of hints though.  And as the occasions start increasing, you can’t help but to think his choices of words and just as peculiar wordings are not actually that accidental.  

TG: dude you literally just said im your best bro and youre happy you know me and all that etc shit  
TG: doesnt that directly translate to you returning my feelings in an exact way  
TG: you pretty much pulled your words from my own speech  
TG: you plagiarize me and then tell me there is no fair trade of feelings  
TG: like that just doesnt make sense   
EB: jesus christ, dave.  slow down, wow.    
TG: hey im not about to dumb it down to your snails pace  
EB: i know you’re on your mobile, and you’re still going faster than my keyboard, so, yeah.  i can totally see through your frantic texting!   
TG: no its not like that  
EB: shush for a second.  

You don’t exactly want to shush, nope.  Distracting him is the soundest method you can think of to deviate from this topic.  

EB: look, rose told me you feel lovey dovey about me.  or like, yeah, however you want to call it.  
TG: i attest to never ever having used the term lovey dovey  
EB: you know what i mean.  

In fact, you don’t really know what he’s referring to.  You haven’t confessed any sort of serious feelings to Rose in a long time, and even if you had had, you know she’s too prideful in her elusive knowledge to go around handing it out freely.  She was probably as aware of how you feel about John as he is in the first place.  That is to say, you do know that you act enamored with John.  But no one called you out on it, no one acted as if it was a problem, so you didn’t really see any issue there.  Maybe that’s changed?  

TG: is there a problem here?   
EB: no, no!     
EB: i just felt i should probably let you know that, uh...  i just see you as my best friend.     
TG: well yeah i get you   
TG: im not actually that stupid like i can do the math   
TG: like ive actually noticed that im a dude and thats sort of failing your checklist already   
TG: i dont really care and all   
EB: it’s not even that.  i mean, i don’t really care that you’re a dude.  
EB: but i wouldn’t date you.  

You have to laugh out loud at that.  

TG: you sure know how to let them down easy egbert   
EB: shit, sorry.  i just meant that my heart is otherwise preoccupied.     
TG: uh huh   
TG: right   
TG: so who is this mystery person exactly   
EB: aha!  let’s not shatter the mystery.

You start breathing a little easier when the topic is cleanly dropped again.  But as the night advances, your invincibility switches to stupidity.  Or, what you mean to say is that, instead of feeling invincible, you feel utterly stupid.  You’d just always had strong feelings for your best male friend, unexplainably so.  He meant more to you than he probably had the right to.  You decided not to think too much about it, and by the time you were climbing into bed for the night, you’d decided that you weren’t going to change any of your feelings, even if there would be some mystery person sweeping off your one childhood love away from you.  You’d just keep busy, and keep to yourself, and it might just work itself out.  

 

\------------------

This year was going to be your year.  The combination of adulthood and of your high school diploma seemed to be ringing the bells to your freedom, to the ability of shaping up your life in the precise direction you’ve been burning for.  That’s all well, and so far you’ve found out that the objectives you’ve aimed for in the goal of reaching your highest one haven’t really been out of your reach, but still...  Still, when you do linger on the idea of leaving home for good, of being so far away from the home you’d grown up in and the man who’d raised you, you suddenly don’t want to think of the upcoming chapters of your life at all.  And so, even when you’d gotten your acceptance letter to the one place and program you wanted to pursue your studies in the most, you’d been so happy, though not happy enough to keep yourself from realizing just how far away you’d be from home.  

You’d mentioned it briefly to Rose, and she’d told you that, studying in New York City herself, she’d only be an hour’s drive away.  You hadn’t really brought it up with anyone when you’d gotten the letter, but you’re sure the eventual mention of your choice of university had her eyebrows rising.  She hadn’t passed any comments on it, and you had been grateful that she’d learned not to mess too much with your feelings over the years.  

This year was still going to be your year, regardless of the huge leap you felt you were making.  You weren’t going to let this slight unease deviate you from your goals.  And that’s why you’d still forced yourself to go back to space camp.  It was the last year that you had the eligible age to go after all, and besides, if anything put you out of your comfort zone:  It was always putting your best foot forward to supply to the group effort and try to gain some leadership skills, and above all, cohabiting with people that weren’t anywhere close to being your brother, and not losing your cool over it.  And over the years, you’d met a good handful of astronauts as guest speakers, and you guess you sort of lived for that sort of shit.  Being here often made you feel like you were taking a step in the right direction.  

You probably should have reminded yourself that you’d never once seen a group of graduating age students that was larger than a handful.  Or even that John the menace hadn’t dropped out of stalling in your shadows at the age of sixteen, as you had previously thought and were immediately proven wrong the following summer.  

It hadn’t really helped that at his resurrection, he’d gone from glaring at you as if he wanted you to fall squarely onto your face, to glaring at you as if he wanted to eat you up.  Not to mention, totally coddling you at the first chance he’d gotten.  To be fair, your surroundings were sort of spinning when that had gone down, and the memory is hazy enough to give him the benefit of the doubt.  Nonetheless, your dearest wish was definitely not to have his glare extremely involved during this week.  

You should have thought that through sooner.  Not only has he managed to appear once more, he’s also managed to land himself into your bedroom; which is not that much of a feat considering all four boys of your small group of nine were residing together.  

When he’d lined up next to you earlier at the orientation, it had so badly shaken you up that you’d almost  pushed your shades off of your face.  To be honest, in the earlier years you’d considered going back to camp with your old pair of shades instead, in the fear of crossing paths with this boy again.  That felt like regressing though, and you’d stuck with your legendary shades instead.  You’re almost tempted to worry about him following you at the end of the week and beating you up.  

You have to remind yourself that this is completely preposterous.  You were both of age now, and when you’d first butted heads, he was just thirteen, and he’d seemed like he had a lot on his plate, and that was fine.  He was fine, you were fine, everything was fine.  And at the end of this summer, all things would still remain fine as well.  You’d keep chatting your friends online as casually as you always had, and try to patch things up with your own John, you’d keep working your hardest throughout your projects, and your brother would find a way to give you too much attention from far away.  And everything would just be fine and you were not concerned with your loneliness whatsoever.  Yet, you had the distinct feeling that at the end of this summer, nothing would be fine at all.  

And so having John here, constantly trying to catch your attention as the day progresses, has a stronger impact on you than you could have expected.  You’d never been scared of him exactly.  There was nothing uncommon in a little intimidation and at the end was only a sure show of weakness.  But he’d made on you a lasting impression.  Though you hadn’t exactly parted on terrible terms on that first summer, you were expecting him to snap back to spiteful at any given moment.  On the following years, you’d played out your cards well enough to avoid him successfully.  Last year, had been less of a success.  But you’d felt so sick, and the planetarium was so whimsical, and he seemed so warm.  His once tense and destructive spirit had seemed to mellow out into a warm and inviting one and you just weren’t so sure how you wanted to go about it.  

As you’re led to your room for the week, and when you’ve finally digested the inevitability of your room sharing, he picks the moment to strike up the conversation with you, and not the other two boys, people you know by face by now but not by name as you did this precise person.  

“David!  Isn’t it so exciting, we’re finally out of high school!”  

It’s still warm and peppy and inviting and all these things that he had surely grown into instead of having showcased naturally.  But the way he calls your name still bothers you.  Sure, it was a common mistake for people to call you David, and on a tendency you only let people who were more or less close to you use it...  But he’d used ‘Dave’ for you on more than one occasion, and every time it had felt as if he had taken the right to use it almost instinctively.  Like he was truly meant to end up being friend.  And at this point, you’re almost too tired to try to fight that.  But he doesn’t call you Dave this time, he clearly calls you David.  

You don’t bother answering, mostly because your mind is flooded with the small bribes of information you have about him, in a poor attempt to up your survival rate for the summer.  He takes the silence as if he’d made a brutal mistake.  Though you suppose he sort of had.  

You have to jog up the stairs to keep up with his pace, he’s going four steps at a time, and at this point, the counselor appointed to you, barely older than you are now you suppose, seems to have made peace with the idea that you both already knew where you were heading.  

“Shit, I’m so sorry.  Did you already graduate like years ago?  I’m going to die if you tell me you’re like working on your master’s or something, even if it wouldn’t be death by surprise, ‘cause, I mean, I wouldn’t be really surprised!”  

You almost cringe at his verbosity, that is to say, his lack thereof.  It’s a strange reminder of when your online friends have to tell you to calm it down because they definitely know you’re wound up about something and are trying to keep them out.  You never really do it on purpose.  You wonder if he’s doing this on purpose.  

“I finished high school like three weeks ago,” you tell him graciously.  

You’re a bit surprised when you finally let his muddled words sink in; had he thought you were some sort of child prodigy?  Maybe that was the source of his distaste for you.  Except not, it was the shades, you’d understood that.  Once again, you’re pushed with the urge to pocket your shades, but you manage to bite that down.  

“I’m not a child prodigy,” you let him know discreetly, feeling your breath getting shorter with the rate at which you were escalating.  You don’t recall him being so athletic, and you purse your lips in envy; you’d tried out pretty much every sport, with a constant high hope of getting your gangly limbs to move and to do something right.  There wasn’t much success.  

“Pretty sure you are.  I mean, those kids who graduate at thirteen, they are like fully committed to their schooling, I guess.  And I bet you’re just busy being amazing all over the board.”  

He’s still babbling a lot, and you almost find it in yourself to smile when you reach the level of the dorms, stilling at the top with him and leaning against a nearby wall as you awaited the other half of your ridiculously small group.  It was just...  Odd, to have the roles reversed like this.  You were usually the one fighting and making sure that you weren’t disinteresting your friends, and he was desperately trying to win you over to his side.  You’re not exactly sure why, honestly.  

“I don’t play any musical instruments,” you blurt out despite yourself.  

It was the first thing you could think of.  You hardly were stellar in ever aspect of your life, you like to think especially not when it comes to talent.  You think of your closest friends.  Your John, not this John, and Rose, both playing classical instruments at a concerto level, you’re sure.  And then Jade, who just mastered any instrument she found throughout her house.  Though you wouldn’t put her up on stage, you admire her ability to pick anything up, and her constant creativity.  You were left remixing, and for all the big talk you did on your skills, you didn’t think it necessarily demanded the same level of talent.  

“You teach your kid to play when he’s young, and then he can.  You could do the same thing with a monkey.”  He hangs his arms over the railing, glancing down the spiraling staircase and calling out for the others to hurry up the pace.  You can’t help but to automatically understand that he might be one of those privileged people who actually rocked their musical talent.  

“Whatever, John.”  You shrug briefly, pushing yourself off the wall as the counselor finally catches up to you.  

The two of you melt into the back of the group, lagging just a few steps behind, no longer knowing which room you were heading to now and resorting to following directions.  But he gives you this weird look the entire time.  You’re no longer really sure if you’d used his name in the past, and that thought makes you uncomfortable as you try and fail to not look as fidgety as you truly feel.  

He looks like he’s just about to say something when you finally stop in front of your room.  You are grateful.  You thank all your stars.  He makes you nervous, god, he makes you nervous.  You’d hate to admit it to anyone, but you’re just about old enough to admit it to yourself now.  His gaze had always weighed down with something that was stronger than judgmental, but to you to figure out that riddle, well, you’re still not so sure you can achieve that.  

Your two roommates breathe a sigh of relief when entering the room as well, for different reasons, you’re pretty sure.  They both make a beeline for the bunk opposite the door, one throwing his backpack overhead and into the top mattress and the other collapsing in the bottom one.  The rooms had been essentially the same throughout the years, but this one was obviously half the size of what you were used to, only incorporating four different beds, and so leaving one bunk for John and yourself.  You knew he was going for the top bunk anyway, so you could have just marched in there and taken the one you wanted, but something keeps you back, imposing you to let others pick before you.  

But he doesn’t move either.  And you are ready to launch your backpack at him.  He was just about the most frustrating person you had ever, ever, ever met! 

He turns to you, and you can’t help but to glance his way, a bit bothered by his presence, truth be told, but humoring it nonetheless.  His eyes look emergency stricken, and you worry about what sort of nonsense he must want to spew out.  

“Dave, you want the bottom one, right?  You can have the bottom one, I promise not to bounce on my mattress!”  

You nod deftly, even though you know the ceilings to be too low for him to even consider standing up over the bed, this you’ve learned from years of not getting your preferred bed.  You think you’re not able to summon words and are suddenly going with what he says because he’d just called you Dave.  But even as you think that, he surprises you by muttering a small, “Shit, fuck, I meant David.”  This seems to distress him to no end, and this distress somehow migrates to you in a single heartbeat.  

“Dave is fine,” you assure him.  More than fine.  Even though, even though he wasn’t close to you and this was reserved to those close to you, and he would never be close to you because he was, he was...   You still tell him that it’s fine.  And he seems to mouth the name David over and over again as he slips his sandals off without trouble, climbing up the ladder and removing his messenger bag in one go.  You note his almost fluorescent socks and you sigh to yourself, sitting atop your own mattress and letting yourself wind down.  

There is a comfortable murmur of conversation in the room, you don’t participate, but you strain yourself to listen.  You’re guessing it must not have worked out so well because next thing you know, John is shaking you awake.  You jerk back to the world of the living, not understanding how you’d fallen asleep sitting down and hunched against the wall for a moment or two.  There is less sunlight streaming in from outside the hallway by now, and you have a little bit of a hard time swallowing.  

It takes you only a moment later for you to go rigid and to register his sole presence in the room, others apparently off and about.  You feel estranged, you can’t possibly understand what had allowed you to fall asleep without your guards up like that, or how you hadn’t rolled away from his touch and awoken before he’d gotten to press his hand to your shoulder.  There is the thought of wanting to eliminate the shades as to also eliminate whatever stale connection there had always been between the two of you, and you finally do throw your shades off of your face.  The movement must have been very concerning, you have no doubts of it, you feel it as well.  You launch the shades away from you and somewhere on the mattress and your breath all but hitches when your eyes jump up to meet his.  You are probably sporting the look of a deer caught in headlights, and you’re just about to die of shame.  What had possessed you to think now was an appropriate time to throw away your shades like that?  This was the absolute worst time!  Ever, ever, ever! 

It surprises you when you finally come to understand that his breath had hitched in a similar way to yours, and that his eyes had widened in a perfect mirror of yours.  Or you can only imagine the expression on his face must resemble yours.  Except the next thing that he does unsettles you, as if he’d quickly shifted through this emotion, instead allowing himself to sit next to you on the bed.  You feel your back press into the wall and you realize belatedly that his wide-eyed stare had shifted back to that hungry glare you’d been acquainted with last year.  Maybe everything is getting hazy again, it must have been that impromptu nap...

But his eyes still haven’t moved away from you, from how you’d almost poked your eye out in an effort to rid yourself of the shades he’d loathed so thoroughly.  He only says, “Hey.”  It’s enough to have you pull your knees inwards, to cross your arms atop them, and to let your face disappear in a hasty sense of embarrassment.  

“How was your sleep?  You were all tuckered out over here.”  

You don’t reply, still wishing for the darkness to engulf you whole and to get you out of this situation.  Leaving for college was the farthest thing from your mind now, and you couldn’t have possibly cared less about your future.  You hated how important he’d become out of nowhere, and you hate that you recognize this feeling you’re getting from every time you’d previously met face to face with him.  

“The others have gone down to supper.”  

You breathe out a slight and muffled “Ah” and you silently acknowledge that maybe he hadn’t trapped you all alone in here to eat you.  

“I’m not hungry,” you tell him rapidly as a followup, now imagining that he’d just waited behind in the hopes of escorting you down, possibly being a good friend.  Maybe making up for the way he’d treated you a long time ago?  No, you don’t think so.  Those were just mere days.  But whenever you stop to think about it, all of your interaction could be put into days, and not in years as you felt like doing, in allusion to the span of time that had gone by since your first meeting.  

“I guessed you might have eaten before getting here!  I ate with my father at the airport, and he sent me literally a dozen of snacks for the flight, so, yeah.”  

He’s still doing that rambling thing, and it surprises you out of hiding.  There was no way that he could be intimidated with you, not with how slight and bizarre you were making yourself out to be.  And still, he kept acting in this way.  

“...Ok.”   

“Do you want to do anything?”  He asks you energetically, and you feel too bad to even try to shoot him down.  

“Ok,” you repeat, this time a bit more soundly.  

You eventually unfold out of yourself, kicking your legs over the bed once more and finding your shades somewhere around the space of your bed.  You lean over him to fold them gently over your pillow, and he watches you with that weird glare during that whole time.  

“Ok,” you tell him a third time, hoping that his look will change if you remind him that you do exist, and that you can totally see the way he is currently looking at you.  

He doesn’t really change much to his eyes though, only pressing his lips together.  

“This one year, these two guys in my room made this awesome fort from their bunk, we should do that, right now!”  

You almost let your ‘What?’ of utter shock escape you, but instead you just give him a semi-terrified look.  “Come again?”  You ask him instead, trying to compose yourself as he hops off your bed, getting on the first step of the ladder to rummage around his bed.  You don’t really know what’s happening, honestly.   

“Look, I’ll show you, it’s super cool, it’s like making a secret hideout.”  

Out of nowhere he’s back, arms full with sheets and thin covers and his pillow.  He’d positively just destroyed his bed for the sake of entertaining you, or so it looked like.  He hands the pillow to you, and you grip for your dear life.  His fort making tactics are sort of practical, but at the same time flawless.  From the corners of his bed, to the corners of yours, he manages to build up walls with his stolen sheets and covers, and in no time whatsoever, he’s slipping next to you and into the darkness of your improvised fort.  

“Wow, cosy,” you tell him numbly, though your lips are quirking up at the darkness he had not expected.   

“Uh...  Yeah, it worked better when there was more sunlight around, I remember that!  Man we should steal one of those camping lanterns, you know the ones?”  

“Like the one we used when we did that treasure hunt?”  You remind him kindly.  Your eyes haven’t yet adjusted to the dark, so it’s impossible for you to guess his expression or such, but you still feel the shift in energy.  

“Dave.”  The quality in his voice sells the shift perfectly.  He’s moved to dead serious, and you sort of feel like he’s moving towards you too.  This fort must be the unsafest fort you have ever experienced.  “Id!  Dave-id, David.  I meant David.”  

You almost feel bad as he starts scolding himself.  You start making out his outline in the dark too, and it takes a lot out of you not to reach out and to calm him.  You wanted to repeat that it was fine, he could call you Dave, but he seemed far gone into his thoughts.  

“I think I’m in love with you.”  By the time he tells you this much, you can make out his eyes in the improvised dark of the little getaway he’d created out of your conjoined beds.  You can see them well enough to understand that you couldn’t quite call it a glare anymore.  Nor was it mean or hungry, it was different.  It wasn’t familiar enough for you to recognize it.  

You don’t have much time to think of the setting.  But you can imagine that he’d forced the intimacy of your arrangement in an effort to tell you this.  And you still feel as bad as ever, you want to pull him in and tell him that it was alright.  You do not know why.  That is not the sort of relationship you have with this person.  But neither did you have the sort of relationship where you’d expected him to claim to be in love with you. 

Your own rejected feelings still feel fresh, even though they were over half a year ago now.  You feel as if you have to live through the rejection whenever your John at home talks to you.  And it’s hard.  That’s all you have to say about it; it’s hard.  And you don’t want to reject someone who was going to be interacting with you for the rest of the week.  

Thinking of both the Johns that were more or less important in your life at the same time does strange things to your stomach, and you’re almost heaving when you meet his eyes once more.  

You mouth ‘What’ and he somehow gets it; because he tells you, more determined than before.  “I’m in love with you.”  

You don’t know why your heart is feeling like it’s about to drop out; because this should mean nothing to you.  

For some unimaginable reason, you revert to the position you had earlier, face hidden into the spot your joined knees and elbows created.  

“Maybe I’m in love with someone else?”  You don’t know why it came out as a question.  You’re in love with John Egbert, regardless that that was unrequited.  Regardless that it had started to become harder in past months.

“I don’t care!”  And it sounds like a hiss in this dark intimacy.  

“I know the person for me is you.  It’s ok if you don’t think so.  But I think that you will one day too.”  

You shake your head, but when he sits right up against you, you let yourself lean against him.  It’s easier not to cry that way.  You don’t know what’s going on with your head at all.   

 

\------------------

As far as John Egbert was concerned, he could easily take other people’s feelings for granted without the bat of an eyelash.  That is to say, he knew well enough the limits of the important figures in his life.  He could put his father through hell, he could give him the hugest teenager crisis the world had ever seen, and he’d keep loving him unconditionally.  Though he supposes this should be the definition of parental love, he knew it wasn’t a universal happening.  And even after having learned of their lack of biological link not too long ago, quite far ahead in his teen years already, he hadn’t questioned that he could  put him through shit and still come out as the son he would be proud of.  Not that he went out of his way to put him through anything of the sort, it was just an honest observation.  

He’d of course learned to do the same with his friends.  And if there was a second person in his life involved in the ways of putting up with most anything without flinching, it was his long time best friend.  John wasn’t stupid.  The boy was infatuated with him.  He could knock him down again and again, and he could read through the secret admiration the other harbored for him.  That was alright.  And as the years passed and Dave’s secured infatuation did not pass, he figured it might just be a little more than that.  And he didn’t quite see the problem with one of his friends being something like in love with him; why not?  He figured if that was really the nature of his feelings, Dave would just be ecstatic to have him as a friend and he’d be satisfied with that much.  He didn’t ask for much, John had already picked up on that.  

There was never a problem on that font, and he never truly had to question himself deeply on the topic.  

Maybe it was because he never really quite had anything to feel guilty for.  He’d never quite met anyone he was interested in.  It wasn’t like he could ever rub it in Dave’s face how happy he was with someone else.  He was single, and his best friend liked him; so what?  No harm there.  Dave would have to be crazy to become miserable over something as trivial as the sort.  

And then, he’d held someone’s hand.  Not that hand holding was a big deal.  But he’d outwardly tried to comfort the boy to whom the destined shades for one Dave Strider belonged to.  He’d let the one present he ultimately wanted to give to his best friend escape him and end up in someone else’s grasp.  And he was two inches close to admitting his love for that person?  Now, even John thought it was unfair.  

And for how frequently he was thinking of this person, of the way their eyes had shone as he’d looked up to the cosmic show, the way he spoke, the way he did things...  For how frequently his thoughts was consumed with how absolutely divine this other person was.  He felt a stab of guilt at leading his best friend on.  Well, alright, he wasn’t actually leading him on.  He’d never acted as if he could be responsive to those feelings.  But he’d just ignored it, brushed it beneath the rug.  

He was seventeen, and he’d just held a boy’s hand at space camp as he’d slept, and that was the last straw for John Egbert.  He had to let down the person who had feelings for him as easily as he could manage.  

He tries to wait for the perfect opportunity, he tries to wait for Dave to ask him out, or something similar!  And it never comes.  He feels almost repulsed with himself when he has to shoot down his friend, without him even confessing.  Just shooting him right down from whatever blissful ignorance he was going through.  

Globally, the other boy had seemed to take it well, and they had kept chatting and hanging around as if it meant nothing at all after John had cleanly broke up any chance of development between them.  

He’d never been interested in Dave, ever.  

So he doesn’t quite understand the deep and sorrowful regret he feels after rejecting him so blandly.  It takes him by such surprise at first that he considers going to his father to talk about it.  Calling Rose, who’d always made sure her friends had her number in case they were in extreme distress (John had always marveled at how thoughtful Rose was in contrast of his poor ways).  He’d even thought of seeking advice online, from strangers.  He ends up escaping to the upstairs terrace.  

The telescope had been there forever.  And despite the accumulative knowledge he’d been getting from his short summer courses regarding space; he ignored the telescope most of the time.  

But that November night, he stayed outside, blanket wrapped tightly over his shoulders and slippers on his feet, seeming like a very weak shield against the outdoors' snow.  His father would have scolded him had he known he’d gone outside at such a time of the night and so under dressed for the temperature.  

He didn’t really care.  He stargazed aimlessly, not using any of the knowledge he should have bottled up into his reserves, and instead thinking of the strange way the air had seemed to come alive around David, the very first time he’d met him.  He had needed to tell Dave that they were a no go.  He was in love with someone else!  He needed to pour his heart and soul into this if he wanted to find a shot with the prodigal object of his heart.  

He wasn’t sure if it was the cold.  But tears streamed down his cheeks.  His watch indicated that it was past midnight, and he felt deep, deep grief in pushing aside the possibility of a relationship with Dave.  He’d never considered it.  

But he felt he missed him like never before, no matter those nights when he felt so lonely he thought he might just crack and fall apart if it weren’t for his Texan friend talking him through things.  He missed him so much.  And he’d never get to be with him, not now.  

He didn’t know why the thought of possibly achieving that with David, the boy from space camp, didn’t make him feel better.  It probably had to do with something like speaking to Dave on a daily basis for years and years.  Knowing that he was an integral part of his life and that he’d had this access all along to make him an even bigger part.  And now that he went ahead to acknowledge it, it was only to refuse it.  

The deep sorrow he feels towards Dave doesn’t pass before Christmas.  It doesn’t pass before his birthday.  And he doesn’t really know if it will pass or not.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who is reading, thank you so much!!!


	9. Double Edged Running

So far, this year has been a little bit hectic.  To tell the truth, every mention of future plans that you caught in the school hallways was very similar to nails scraping the blackboard.  You think you’ve noticed a few other people visibly cringing when being asked what they were doing and where they were going after graduation.  It’s not that you didn’t have a plan.  You had tons of plans!  You even had one great master plan, of how you’d love for your life to unfold and all of that stuff.  You’re well aware that life is unexpected, and that the path one will find himself on is almost never clear until they’re well on it.  So you know this great master plan is a tiny bit pointless, but you keep it anyway.  You like envisioning the little perfect life your heart sings for, and it’s not doing any harm anyway, so why not?  

Then everything should have been alright, no?  This year and those questions constantly exchanged should be a breeze for you.  You knew what you wanted to do, you were in the clear, no?  Well, no.  Just working up the courage to go for those things had you anxious and sleepless on more than one occasion.  Of course, you had to try out for the things you wanted, you were going to try out for them too, that wasn’t the problem.  But there was still the looming failure that you might face, and the subtle fear of finding out that you just weren’t the right person for your dreams.  

Such an idea seems like the cruelest of fates.  Yet, you know it happens every day.  So why not you?  

The first week of twelfth grade had almost been too much for you.  It took you a few days to realize that the reason you were so unhappy and moody was simply because of stress.  And it took you another few days to try to fix it.  In the end you’d bought some cheap calendar with hideous kitten pictures, and you’d spent a hefty amount of hours annotating the different deadlines of the different universities you were considering.  After that, it had been a little bit better.  And whenever you successfully started out or finished up an application, you felt on top of the world for a few weeks.  Eventually, stress would catch up to you again and you’d chew your nails about the others you hadn’t filled out, until you moved on to the next one.  And that’s how you worked through it, you guess.  It wasn’t the most efficient, or the easiest, but it worked well enough.  

A few weeks ago, you’d worked through the last of your applications.  And things were great, you were still ahead of your deadlines; if anything changed, you still had time to shift things around before everything was set in stone.  The idea of shaping up your future like this has a shiver running along your spine, but you compose yourself enough to step over that.  So, for these past few weeks, you’ve been lighthearted, not too stressed out, content enough.  

When the stress caught up with you again and you resorted to checking your calendar, and had realized that your work was done now, all you had to do was to keep raking up the good grades from school; you had panicked a bit.  You’d filled the scholarship requests that were already accessible, you were done, more or less.  

And that moment was when, for the first time this year, you were completely paralyzed with the idea of growing to be an adult and trying to find your way in this world.  Not because you’d emptied your hands of your responsibilities, not because you were finally pleased with the work you’d done.  Because there was still one thing you wanted, that you wanted in such an explicit way that you could not bring yourself to scribble it down on a silly calendar.  You could not bring yourself to state it to yourself clearly.  

You froze up on that Friday night.  You’d been nervous about the weekend, thinking you might as well keep trying to secure a future that will fulfill you as the person you want to become.  And there had been nothing but that small nameless detail; and you’d completely frozen up.  You had locked yourself in your room.  Gone to bed barely after the sun had set.  And you’d mopped around for most of today.  Visited the same pages of the web pointlessly again and again, tried to fall asleep again, succeeded a handful of times, organized your room as best as you could, and felt your stomach sink when you’d realized the sun was also sinking in the sky again.  

Your feelings of mortification were starting to subdue and to leave place to ones of hunger.  Ultimately, that had been your downfall as to staying cooped up in your room.    And when you’d stepped out of your room, your pajama pants rolled up to your knees, or the left leg anyway, and in that old jersey your brother had passed down to you (you doubt it was very legitimate, you can’t imagine him spending any time in organized sport, not even had it been fencing); the brother in question had been on you immediately.  Not literally on you, of course, but you were still taken aback to see him staring straight into your direction.  Of course, you sometimes forgot that stepping out of your room was as good as stepping into his room instead; that’s why you typically liked it better when you left your door open, that way you never felt as if you were interrupting his intimacy.  Sure, it wasn’t the most spacious of places to live in, but you had quick and easy access to anything you wanted in the city, and it was sort of cool to have such a close bond with your brother.  

Right now, you would have been grateful for just a smidgen more of space though.  There was something playing on the television, but you know he wasn’t paying attention to it.  Sitting cross legged on the futon, you could make out that he was knitting again.  Probably a blanket.  He likes knitting you blankets for big events in your life.  This better not be your goodbye blanket.  For a moment you’re trying to decide if he was going to move into the bedroom once you were away to college, you try not to panic.  You might stay in Houston, you know that.  You don’t really want that, but that’s not the point.  

“Hey kid, you expect me to believe that you’ve been sleeping for the last twenty-four hours?”  

The embarrassment you feel at being put on the spot like this has a way to tip the scales back in favor of the paralysis you’d felt last night, and just like that, you are frozen up again.  Swallowing minutely becomes more of a challenge as you find yourself battling down the urge to walk up to him and to request a hug.  You’re not really so sentimental on an average, or if you are you think you do a pretty good job at burying it deep beneath the surface.  

He turns back to his knitting and it feels like entire minutes later when he sets it to the side and asks you, “Hey, Dave, come here for a minute?”  

You’re expecting it when you drop next to him and he slings his arm around your shoulders and pulls you against his side.  You don’t know what’s playing on the television, but it looks stupid.  And your brother smells the way he always has, and this place hasn’t changed a bit ever since you’d moved in here, and you just did not want to leave.  

You tell him as much.  

And you don’t know how it happens, but he almost feels warmer against you when he speaks next.  

“You’re always welcome back home.  But I know you’re going to make yourself your own home, and that’s fine.”  He doesn’t sound as sure as you’d like him to be.  You’d have to look at him to find out how he really feels, but instead your eyes are concentrated on whatever silly thing is displayed on the screen.  Everything feels blurry in your mind and you just wish you could skip over these feelings, have them gone.  

“It’s going to be such a lonely home.”  

You feel the cold sting of rejection for what feels like the millionth time.  You’d promised yourself that you were fine, months ago, when you’d been cleanly shot down.  That had been completely fine, it’s not as if you were expecting anything out of that.  John wasn’t going to want you in any world.  But you still felt weird now whenever the two of you talked.  and you’ve started to wonder, against your own will, if anyone else is ever going to stand you the way your brother had.  That was stupid, just because one person had predictably not returned your feelings, it didn’t mean no one will ever like you.

It still feels that way.  

“I’m going to be all alone when I leave.”  

You know your brother doesn’t know you to be a person who fed on other people’s energy.  You’d never even had a friend over.  It felt weird to think of someone coming over.  You didn’t really know anyone in person who you trusted enough to have around your home base.  He knew that.  You knew that.  

“If you get into Princeton, won’t you be super close to that Rose girl?”  

“I won’t get into Princeton.”  You want to.  

“Have you asked that friend of yours where he’s going?  Your little troop might all be able to meet up at the Big Apple, I know you’ve always been stupidly in love with that place.”  

He’d brought you there once when you were a kid.  The nostalgia whenever you thought of New York City was a strange sensation, but one of the most beautiful ones you knew of.  

“I haven’t asked him yet.”  And you know that that’s the one thing left for you to do, that you had never dared to put down on your calendar.  You want to find out where John is going, and get in some last minute inscriptions to wherever that is.  But he doesn’t like you.  

That’s fine, you were still his friend!  He’d be happy to have you around.  

The nausea that hits you when you try to work that one puzzle out is enough for you to take a nap leaning over your brother’s shoulder.  When you wake up, he’s gone, but he’s cooking, and once you’ve eaten, you feel a tiny bit better.  You hate how the one person you care for the most is the one you can handle the least.  

You think you’ve landed yourself with the cruelest of fates.  

 

 

 

\------------------

 

 

The fort thing he’d transformed your joined beds into might have been dark, but it was still pretty neat.  You’d only just woken up from your nap, and so you were still drowsy, and he was obviously not in the rightest of minds.  Not with the way his eyes gleamed in the darkness he’d cast the both of you into.  You think you might have both been too tired to reshape his bed once again.  

He was probably emotionally tired.  Especially since you hadn’t really returned his feelings (but how could you have), and you know that sort of stuff just saps the energy right out of you.  So you don’t kick him out.  Eventually, before any of your roommates come back into the room, you slip under the covers, and you pull back the covers on the side farthest from the wall, as a sign for him to lay down with you.  He’d brought his pillow after all, and there might be no pillow place for your shades now, but things were fine.  He curled up next to you regardless, and you set the shades between the two of your heads in the end, when it had dawned to you that he was staring at you quite intensely again.  He had put his glasses next to yours, so you don’t think there was really an issue.  

You fall asleep next to him, as if it weren’t the weirdest thing in the world, and you consider the possibility that you might just be in love with him too.  But that is the weirdest thing in the world.  You might like him, a little bit.  For some obscure reason.  But you had  these strong feelings for your true John, someone you’d trust your life with.  Someone who could see you as you were because you’d spent so much time with him and he knew you and cared about you and...  Didn’t feel the way you felt about him, and hardly spoke to you anymore.  This John loves you.  Or so he claims.  

It’s hard to disprove however as you battle through your Monday.  It always feels off to not wake up at home.  It feels odder to wake up next to him, but somehow a little better.  It takes a lot of shin kicking on your part to get him to budge from how absolutely heavily asleep he was, and when he does wake up he just flashes you with this too bright smile, and this too loud laugh.  He looked so happy to see you.  And it made you feel weird.  You try to make it through this day without completely obsessing over him; because that’s just not your style.  It’s not the hardest thing in your life because he just so happens to be the most distracted person you have ever met.  His head is up there in the clouds, but when it isn’t, his eyes are fixated on you and you try to ignore it, oh boy you really do, but you notice it regardless.  

This boy had always been supposed to hate you.  For a reason you’d never quite understood, for something he hadn’t been able to accomplish without the shades you wear daily.  And here he was, declaring his love for you as if it was the truest words he could ever speak.  It hurt in a very good way.  As if you’d managed to get a person who hated you to fall for you; it makes you feel a little bit less lonely, and a little more alive.  And it’s weird.  You know that it’s weird, and that you should definitely shrug it off.  But you don’t.  Instead you stay close to him.  Not that you had much of a choice with the limited number of kids in your program, but you stayed extra close.  You walked alongside him.  Maybe that wasn’t very much and yet you somehow knew that it was a lot for him.  That it meant something to him.  That you meant something to him.

You wish it didn’t make you feel the way that it does.  

Maybe more importantly, you sat with him for breakfast and lunch.  Without consulting one another, you’d found yourself occupying the table you had on your very first year together.  It didn’t really bring back any hard memories, it felt sort of comfortable.  You don’t remember using this table any other time than on the first year, or having noticed him taking it up without you any other year.  It wasn’t the only table propped up against the windowed wall, it wasn’t special or anything.  Except that it was very special, and at the end of the day, you’re happy to take a seat there, even though the idea of getting your meal served up by the cafeteria staff doesn’t really excite you.  

You’d spotted him heading to the bathroom after you’d left the fifth floor’s lab; you’d gone about heading to the cafeteria and saving the table without him, waiting at the table, chin pressed onto your folded arms.  You don’t realize it when he catches up with you, and it’s only when he pats your head that you do realize that you’d basically slumped over the table.  The shame of this realization has you slumping down even more fully.  

“The food’s lame, let’s go eat somewhere else,” he whispers with a big dumb smile that becomes obvious in the way he pronounces every one of his words.  You wonder which state he’s from, you stop wondering when you remind yourself of how easy it was for people to grasp your own accent.  

“Right, I forgot about all the awesome food options we’ve got around here, duh.”  You straighten up in the coolest manner you can muster, maybe your words are distracting enough not to showcase how gauche you feel all the time.  

“I mean, downtown isn’t so far.  A few streets down from here and there’s already food places.”  

“I don’t think we can just leave.”  

You mean that.  You aren’t a rule breaker, no sir.  But for some reason, you were already standing up, following him obediently as he walks away, gesturing happily as he kept up the loud whispers.  

“And who is going to stop us exactly?  We’re adults now.  You’re an adult, right?”  

The last part is tacked on quickly, and you smile almost sweetly.  Why did you like this guy so much?  He probably hadn’t always been this way, right?  Happy and funny and nice.  No, he definitely hadn’t been that way.  He’d been unhappy, angry, and mean.  

“I’m eighteen” you assure him, feeling bad for his second guessing and doubt.  

“Tell me when your birthday is!”  He requests quickly, the whispering now dropped.  He was so distracting that you hadn’t really noticed that you’d already swerved away from the cafeteria line and were heading down the hallway and out of the room altogether.  

“Why should I?  What do you want next, my social number?”  

You could have just told him.  But the date just won’t come out, something in you doesn’t really want to tell him.  

“I bet our astrological signs are the perfect match, like the most compatible, you know?” 

“No, I don’t know.  That sounds like the most unreliable way to pick out your relationships, dude.”  

His hands disappear into his shorts’ pockets, and he sighs a silly breath as his eyes look upwards.  You’re only half conscious that you were still heading out of the building, going down the stairway as if there was no reason for you to linger about the cafeteria.  You’re amazed that none of the people on watch for supper had stopped you yet.  Maybe John was right, you were adults now, you almost looked as if you were the counselors now.  

“If I keep giving you a bunch of reasons to be with me, there’s bound to be a few good ones.”  

“Don’t be annoying,” you cut him off, and a second later you understand that it might have been just a little harsh.  When you glance over, he’s still looking up, expression unchanged.  You hope that maybe he was too distracted to even understand the tone of your voice.  Knowing what you knew of him, that was likely.

“Alright, I won’t, but I still think we should hang out!”

You can’t say no to that and anyway that conversation was cut off when you arrived in the main lobby.  You glanced over at the imposing front doors.  Instinctively, you take a step back, eyes set on the security guard seated at the welcome desk.  When John wraps his hand around your elbow, you swear part of your heart dies off.  

“We just walk out of here like we’re allowed to, and we’ll walk back in later like we’re allowed to.  He won’t know the difference.”  

That one part of your heart’s death is being extremely loud because you can feel your pulse in your ears now.  Why had you even followed him?  It was an extremely bad idea, you weren’t allowed to just walk away, you were going to land yourself in so much shit.  And it’s not like you should be putting yourself in situations where the two of you are all by yourself.  For goodness’ sake, this was the dude who once hated you, who now loved you, and if that doesn’t spell out threats of murder, you don’t know what else could.  And you had let him into your bed, when said bed had been sheltered away from the rest of the world, and you’re only now surprised at the miracle of you not having been stabbed to death last night.  

You remind yourself to breathe in time to register the dull sound of the wooden door shutting behind the two of you.  He’d dragged you as your heart had raced and your mind had screamed and screamed about danger.  Without batting an eyelash, he’d gotten you out of the building.  

You have time to breathe out “Oh, holy shit,” before you’ve shaken your arm away from him, only to firmly steal his hand into yours.  Without warning, you bolt.  You jump down the small staircase, hand squeezing his tightly, and you run down the hill as if the asphalt at your heels have become pure lava.  

You hear his voice through the wind.  “Dave?  Dave, what are you doing?”  You hear his laugh too.  But you mostly hear your name, and it feels good to have him call you the right name, not that lousy David bullshit.  

“Dude, we need to run.  They can’t catch us that way.”  

You think that he might understand that you just had the urge to run.  When you let go of his hand and race ahead, he matches your pace; it feels good.  You might not be the best of runners, not the best of athletes in any lifetime, ever, but you were putting your heart into it.  You didn’t have to think about home, about college, about John in Washington, or this John here, or performing well, you could just run.  

So you did, and he bested you in speed in no time, and that was alright, because you didn’t quite know where you were headed for, and he seemed to, so you were content to follow him.  Besides he ran as if he did it every school break he’d had throughout his life, so it was good to try to keep up.  

When he stops his movements, you’re almost shocked to see that the residence building is nowhere in sight.  You’re a little bit startled when you do understand that none of the surroundings you were used to were around.  You even have to glance around apologetically when you happen to realize that you’d been running like a crazy person in others’ presence.  Downtown really wasn’t that far away, he was right.   

When you manage to look his way, you understand that your breathing is heavy and your face most likely flushed and wet with perspiration.  When you try to set your face into straight lines of expressionlessness, you can feel your lips quiver with the effort.  

“Now we just need to find a menu that will rock our world, and then we will feast as kings!”  

You’re a bit shaken up, even as he takes your hand into his, and resorts to pulling you around as he pointed out different places.  How far had you run?  How much better did you feel now?  And after all of that, he was just there, smiling and peaceful, and you just couldn’t understand the way he made you feel.  Your stomach felt upset mostly, and it was hard to keep up with him as he discussed the different merits of different menus of different restaurants.  

He keeps pointing out to you the vegetarian options, and you are reminded of one of those very first few times he had spoken to you directly.  Was he still sticking to the certitude that you didn’t eat meat?  Did he remember everything of that week as clearly as you did?  Was he really in love with you?  You think he might be.  

Eventually, you feel like breathing is relatively easy again, and you speak up in the shakiest way that you’ve had in quite some time.  “Uh, I don’t have any money to eat out?”  

“It’s cool, I went to get my debit card before picking you up at the cafeteria.”  

This is sort of starting to sound like a date, and you sort of really hate it.  You think quickly, pointing up ahead to a spot very far down the somewhat busy street you’d ended up on with him.  You wonder what time it is, if anyone’s starting to question why you weren’t around.  

“Dude, let’s just go to McDonald’s.  Quick, cheap, and no matter how righteous you want to be about it, still a hell of a lot tastier than that bullshit they feed us.”  

He gives you this weird look, but he still follows your finger’s direction, the golden arch you had thankfully found displayed not too brilliantly nor too proudly, but enough of a checkpoint to save your skin.  

“Sure, man, this will be awesome!”  

You still sort of smirk at his positive attitude.  You wish that you hadn’t, but your steps were a bit lighter as you jogged to keep up with his energetic and speedy pace.

The place is clean enough, a pretty standard fast-food joint; you could appreciate as much.  There was a small waiting line, but many tables were empty, and some shitty pop station was blasting on the radio, and things felt sort of fine.  He mumbles to himself, increasingly hurried as the line shortens, trying to weigh his options and to make the right choice.  You find it slightly endearing, and you bite down on your tongue lightly in an attempt to correct your thoughts.  

When the cashier calls for the next order, you feel his footing go wonky, and had you been less interested, you would have failed to notice the way he almost backed away from the counter, as if suddenly dreading taking the decision.  It’s a fraction of a second.  The next thing you know he’s ordering his McNugget trio, and it gets you smiling because you’d order the same thing when you were a kid.  He asks for extra sweet and sour sauce and you’re not really sure why you’re keeping notes on the little details that make him who he is, but you still do.  

He hesitates for a moment, and you take it as your cue to slip in your quiet, “And a bacon and cheese burger.”  

She repeats after you and you shoot the teen a thumbs up.  

John looks a bit peeved when you both step to the side to wait for your order.  You wonder if he caught on to you ordering something off the menu that was barely a dollar.  Sure, you’d done that on purpose, not wanting to be in his debt, but at the same time this was your usual order.  It was simple and tasty and, yeah, cheap as hell.  

“Weren’t you supposed to be vegetarian?”

You’d only just remembered earlier that he thought of you as one, and yet you’d forgotten that much quickly after.  

“I never said that I was.”  Your smirk is dangerously close to a smile, and you’re thankful when your order is quickly called up.  You sweep the platter of food away from him and set out for one of those high tables, with the equally high stools.  You have the whole thing set out by the time he takes a seat in front of you.  

You sink your teeth into the burger, and for an instant or two all you can do is hum in delight, happy with the familiar taste.  

“Dude, I can’t believe it.  Not once.  I have never seen you eat meat.  And here you are, feeding off some poor fusion of beef and pork.  I cannot believe it.”  

You take even bigger and longer bites of the burger, smiling with your cheeks filled up.  He grumbles a bit as he sets out on devouring his nuggets.  You think you might like the way he makes sure that every bite he has is covered in the sweet and sour sauce.  You think you might like him, except you force yourself not to think that.  

You’re halfway through your own meal when you resign yourself to give him at least a bone.  “I kind of feel sick when I’m away from home.  Like not just homesick, but stomach sick.  So I sort of don’t eat anything heavy when I come here.”  You gesture towards the outside of the store, to help him understand that you meant space camp, not the McDonald’s.  

“Does that mean you feel at ease right now?”  He looks eager and hopeful, and you have to berate yourself for having made it seem that way.  

You still have to nod your head.  Because you feel comfortable.  

“What about when you move out, will you be alright enough to eat enough?”  

You recognize the curve of his eyebrows to be worry.  So you don’t really get angry at him for the question, but you do look down and go back to eating your burger.  You don’t really want to talk about this.  

“I’m sorry,” he tells you softly, and your heart protests inside of your chest.  You don’t want him to be this soft, it’s making things impossibly hard.  “Do you have any upcoming plans?  College?”  

“Uh huh, I...”  You wet your lips, there are only two bites left to your burger.  “Astrophysics, at Princeton,” you tell him docilely.  It wasn’t that hard to say after all, but it still felt weird.  As if you still weren’t officially going until you’d be there.  

“Oh, neat!  That’s going to be so awesome.”  He looks genuinely happy, though you don’t understand the sense of confusion you can guess at the back of his eyes.  It quickly becomes clear when he asks you a second question, “So can you attend and live at home?”  

You smile for real this time, because there was no way he’d understood you were from Texas.  Even though every other person liked to point out your accent, he hadn’t recognized it.  

“Nah, home is entire states from there.”  

You don’t want to state more about how much you’ll miss your home and brother.  You want to push it a little farther back.  So you go right ahead and stop him in his momentum, turning the spotlight to him instead.  “What about you, where are you going?”  

There’s a moment of awkward hesitation and you see him fuss around with the cardboard of his fries container, before shoving it your way in a silent offer.  You take a fry and chew silently as he sighs as deep as you feel you would if you did.  

“Don’t laugh at me, alright?  Because, like, you’re going to an Ivy League university and shit...”  He looks up, and you can tell he’s piecing some things together.  “Are you like a trust fund baby?”  

You laugh loudly, clasping a hand over your mouth when the sound reaches your ears.  Yeah, you didn’t exactly want to discuss just how your brother had come to be so exorbitantly rich.  

“I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m not going to college.”  

You blink once.  Huh, you hadn’t remembered that as an option.  You guess, probably since everyone who attended space camp was pretty fond of the world of academics, you’d forgotten how spacey he actually was.  Your expression softens and warms up though; you weren’t going to laugh at that.  

“Dude, that’s cool.  I hope you can find what you really want to do soon, it’ll be really great.”  

There’s another pause.  And the smile you share is slightly too emotional for your liking and you almost feel your throat tighten up.  

“I haven’t told any of my friends yet.  I kind of feel like a loser, but...”  

“You’re not a loser!  Almost none of my friends know where I’m going either.”  You laugh together awkwardly.  

You fall back into the comfort in the situation, finish up your burger, and keep stealing at his fries as he keeps painting up his nuggets with the third container of sauce.  

A song came on the radio that you recognized from some awesome remix you’d heard online a few weeks ago.  You’re surprised to find that the original moves you in the same way, and you hum along with the song, hoping he won’t catch on to you liking without irony some song that plays on the most popular of typical radio stations.  

He seems lost in thought though, and when you start piling up the trash back in the trey, the meal finally finished.  He asks you, “Hey, is your guardian a woman?”

You shake your head and tell him, “A dude.”  And the silence you follow it with is probably indication enough that you didn’t want to approach the subject.  For how much you loved your brother, and for how comfortable you were with the current event, you never particularly liked to bring up your sibling.  You hated having to defend him and his parenting, you’d never had any patience for assumptions or judgments strangers passed on him.  He just so happened to be the best parent you could think up.  

“Hey, do you ever think of your parents?”  You stand up, following him as he hops off his stool.  But you understand quickly that he isn’t really looking for your answer.  “I haven’t told my friends about this either, but I found out my father is actually my godfather.”  

You strain yourself not to miss a word of what he’s saying, having to hurry the dumping of your trash to catch up with him at the front door.  He looks lost in thought, but you’re mostly lost in the way that he speaks, the way that he looks around, the way that you feel his presence next to you.  

“Isn’t it weird to grow up without your parents?”  

He finally seems to remember who you are and locks eyes with you, shades feeling completely useless in between the two of you.  

You shrug, but mostly because your throat feels even tighter.  Maybe you could sort of start picturing what it would feel like to spend the rest of your life with this guy.  It actually sounds pretty good.

 

 

\------------------

 

He could tell when there was dread in Dave’s messages.  It didn’t bother him at all.  However, he could also typically tell what Dave was dreading.  Throwing the subject he was cautiously approaching into his face wasn’t really the softest of methods, and he knew that, but for all that it was worth, it worked.  Besides, he knew it wasn’t strictly painful to listen to, every moment his friend spent on the edge must have been just as torturous.

If anything, John was doing him a favor, no?  Or anyway he felt entitled to believe so.  That’s what best friends did, they could read one another like open books, and then they used that knowledge as they saw fit.  There was nothing wrong with that.  

Today was one of those rare days where he was at a loss, and where Dave was being overly obvious with every nervous twist of his words.  It was a Sunday, and accordingly John was dancing around the guilt of actually completing his homework.  Most every time, he ended up cramming all the work that he could in his father’s car on the drive to school on the following morning.  But he still dodged and dipped around the possibility of doing something with his homework in the convenient time allotted by the weekend.  

Once upon a time, John had had severe doubts that Dave was anything like a cool kid.  As the years passed and his friend made himself increasingly more absent from the web, he had to face the evidence that maybe he truly was as popular as he liked to claim that he was.  The revelation had at first completely freaked him out.  He’d started befriending people from school, slowly but surely, but nothing that could compare to his long time online friendships.  He didn’t want Dave to be popular to the point where he’d forget there were people spread out across the country who were waiting for his news.  

That never happened however, and he remained still what John assumed to be his most loyal friend.  From that point on, there had been no more distress, no more panic.  Dave returned no matter what, and so John told himself, he could go to as many parties as he wished, he didn’t care.  Even, he was grateful for some down time in his schedule.  

Today, Dave has been surprisingly present.  To boost, he’d showered his best friend with blocks of red text, without cease throughout the day.  

He was dreading something.  And John had no idea what it could be, and as softly as he tried to edge the other boy into speaking his mind, nothing seemed to do it.  

EB: for fuck’s sake, dave.  i feel like we’re thirteen again!  just say it.

That was the little warning before he totally blew up at his lack of communication.  He wasn’t the nicest of friends, maybe.  But when he lost patience, it was often calmly and playfully.  Today, his patience is lost, and he feels the need to demand some answers.  He can tell that Dave should already be in bed by now, and yet there he was, still filling up the screen with things he couldn’t care less about, when there was something different, and urgent, he obviously wanted to express.  

There are some more attempts on his part to get back his flow of unwanted rambling, and John dives in again.  

EB: what is it?  
TG: nothing  
EB: obviously not nothing.  we’ve been doing this all day.  
EB: what is it?  
TG: no seriously its fine  
TG: theres nothing  
EB: i swear to god.  just, go.  
TG: ok so  
TG: like  
TG: uh  
TG: hey how long have we known each other  
EB: i’m starting to think too long.  
TG: thats right  
TG: eight years!  
TG: youre like my childhood best friend  
TG: my teenagehood best friend  
TG: and you havent yet reached the tier of adulthood  
TG: but i was hoping possibly adulthood best friend as well  
EB: oh, dave.  
EB: is this just you worried about us staying best friends?  you don’t need to be.  
TG: well i mean its just like  
TG: i just thought  
TG: wanted to ask you  
TG: about your college applications like  
TG: where are you applying  
TG: i mean it would be pretty sweet if we could transpose this beautiful friendship to real life what do you think  
TG: i think so  
TG: so like i wanted to see if we could make it happen  
TG: we still have time to end up in the same city and stuff  
TG: i mean its just an idea  
TG: you can answer at any time now  
EB: uh, i’m not sure that this is the greatest idea.  
TG: yeah haha i mean   
TG: yeah  
TG: oh man look at the time  
TG: ill catch you later i need to go sheep counting now  
EB: dave, hey, wait.  

**\-- turntechGodhead** ** [TG] ** **ceased pestering ectoBiologist** ** [EB] ** **at 19:56 --**

 

He gaped at his computer screen for a few minutes.  But only for those few minutes.  He’d never fully appreciated how Dave liked to hang around until whoever he was talking to was tired of talking, and not the other way around.  That is, until very recently.  He’s been incredibly skittish.  John would like to say that he doesn’t know why this change of heart has occurred, but that would be an easy lie.  

Ever since he’d told Dave his ‘no’ to any future romantic projects, the conversations had often ended with his disconnected status.  John understood, of course.  He ran away when he thought John was giving him the signals to him being too much in his space, or to being too chummy, or whatever...  But the truth was that John never felt that way about his best friend.  He was never too clingy, too dependent, he liked Dave the way he was naturally.  

He just couldn’t be with him, he could tell as much.  

He can tell that today too, Dave had thought he’d done the wrong thing by asking him.  John feels; incredibly bad.  Because going to college with his best friend sounds extremely fun, he hadn’t refused him in some stupid fear of him acting all lovesick, or anything like that.  He just, hadn’t put any college applications into his own schedule.  

Coming out about it to his father was long and painful, filled with a lot of teeth grinding, but in the end he’d managed to make his guardian see his side of the medal.  He just wanted to do something else for now, he understood the benefits of an education, but he wasn’t going to pour money into it right now, because he couldn’t really relate himself to it.  

He just didn’t want to go.  He felt no motivation to go.  He could tell there was something else for him, he just didn’t quite know what it could be.  

But he doesn’t want Dave to see him as a loser.  He’d have to tell him eventually, but he’d rather be doing something cool or be planning something cool when he comes clean about it.  Not just serving up the line; I don’t really know what I’m doing with my life yet.  

He didn’t want Dave to stop loving him, for some selfish reason.  So he kept his lips sealed and he wished and wished and wished that things could work themselves out, and that Dave could still see him as the person he’d seen in him once.  The person John could not see himself.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading!!!!! <3


	10. Uncoordinated Collapse

It’s not that you like to beat yourself up.  Playing the victim has never held any particular appeal to you.  That however did not mean that you were a stranger to feelings of helplessness and of despair; and you’d be lying if you tried to tell yourself that you saw yourself as being a person of strength.  You might not have been the victim, but you were not the hero.  You were just there.  ‘Just there’ always seemed to describe your position in a way that made sense to you.  But you didn’t typically strike yourself down for being the one who was ‘just there’, you tried to make yourself out to be someone greater as best as you could manage with your capacities.  

So you know that these past weeks have been unlike you.  

Your brother’s constant questions are only making you more miserable.  As much as you’d love to wave off his frequent and parental “what’s wrong” you can’t really bring yourself to.  You can reason it fairly well; if you’re sad to the point of having it readable through your facial expressions, you’re much too sad to pretend that there is nothing wrong.  Your answer comes out as a shrug on most days.  

You’re aware enough to know that it’s not just the quality of your face that’s giving you away.  It’s that sad little shrug that follows up when you can’t bring yourself to answer.  It’s your entire withdrawn body language.  It’s the increased amount of time you spend on your bed staring at your wall instead of occupying your time at home with more productive options.  You try not to think too much about it.  When you do think about it, you try to tell yourself that you’re just in a slump and that it will pass.  

Your daily states range from feeling invincible to being furious with absolutely everything that has ever occurred.  On some days, you convince yourself to isolate yourself from your guardian and friends so that you can just flicker away miserably and not be reproached for it.  But often enough, on the following day you’ll be whining for their attention once again.  Recently, you’re finding that being around yourself is absolutely impossible.  So you simultaneously understand your need to chase everyone away, to save them from the nightmare that you are, but also understand your need to call for them, to save yourself from being alone with yourself.  

Today is an isolation day.  And absolutely everything is making you furious.  You regret befriending your friends.  You regret having put so much of yourself out there.  You regret having wished and hoped and fought to keep them with you.  You regret involving yourself in so many extracurricular activities.  You regret having given your all at school for so many years now.  Most of all, you regret having tried to invite yourself to the same college as John.  You’re not dumb enough to pretend that it wasn’t that particular point that had kicked you down this slump.  There had been a small voice inside of you foreshadowing that he’d absolutely say no, seeing as he’d made it obvious that your feelings were known and unreturned.  

You’d never truly believed in the voice.  And having the ‘no’ presented to you was akin to a nightmare.  In fact, it’s reminiscent of that only time you’d failed a class.  You were nine, and it was physical education, and though you’d been doing horribly and you’d laughed at the possibility, when it had been printed out on your report card, you’d frozen up.  The feeling translated to; how could this be possible?  And that’s what has been hitting you for these past few weeks.  Even though you’d foreseen it, you hadn’t actually believed in it.  

You were waiting for him to undo this, to tell you quite simply that he was just messing with you, that of course he wanted the two of you to attend the same university.  But this time, you firmly believed that he didn’t really want you playing a big role in his life.  Not just, didn’t want you to play the role of his significant other, didn’t even want you playing the role of someone who was real and who could touch him.  You had to be honest, it hurt.  It hurt because, never before had it been so clear that he meant a lot more to you than you did to him.  

Time would help you step over this, you’re sure.  But there’s nothing you can do to accelerate time.  So you let yourself be sad.  Today has a lot of other negative feelings playing into the mix however, and you aren’t just waist deep in regrets and sorrows, you are neck deep in feelings of anger and resentment.  

A long time ago, when you’d just turned ten years old, crows had started visiting your bedroom window.  You’d thought it was wonderful, and had spent an entire week quoting Edgar Allen Poe.  Your brother didn’t like it one bit.  At the time, you didn’t really understand why crows taking perch on your windowsill had been unlikely, nor had you understood the underlying ominous symbol.  The months passed however and they kept visiting and nothing quite bad ever happened to you.  And so eventually your brother had taken to liking them just as much as you had.  

After asking on a few message boards, he’d bought you quite a large bag of sunflower seeds and you started feeding the crows that would come to your window day after day.  It was just a matter of days before you’d found out that it was quite a feeding frenzy and that more than a few feathers were shed when more than just a couple of crows wanted what you were handing out.  Your brother had told you to pick your favorite one, the one crow you could recognize, and only feed this particular one.  

Of course, as rebellious as you could get, you’d chosen a pair instead.  Two crows who liked to visit you in the mornings, and always together.  You’d decided that they were life partners.  And that had always made you ponder if a lot of birds chose partners for life, you knew it was the case for swans, but you never came to investigate it.  

One of them had red eyes, it had always reminded you of yourself, and it was how you managed to recognize them time and time again.  As the years passed, they visited you without fail.  Sometimes going missing for a few days, but accepting your sunflower seeds whenever they’d fly by.   

It was a relaxing time for you, when you could speak to them out loud and watch them jump around your windowsill as they requested more seeds.  It was strange to confide in a living being so openly, but it felt normal and nice all the same.  

You’d never told anyone about their existence, though you could only assume your brother knew you still partook in such an activity, because the bag of sunflower seeds was restocked every fortnight or so.  

Today was just yet another day that you were feeling miserable and angry.  And it just so happened that your beloved birds had not come for any food for three consecutive days.  It wasn’t alarming or out of the norm, but it had you angry and furious, and realizing just how lonely you truly felt.  

You felt betrayed.  And as the sun set, you knew they weren’t coming today either.  And it made you angry, that these two stupid birds who had been around for so long were somewhere out there enjoying each other’s company, and that you had no one to enjoy at all.  They made you angry.  You’d always known they were special, showing up together, living for so long, when you knew they should have been long gone by now.  You were angry that they weren’t here today, and you needed someone to talk to.  

You sat on your windowsill, legs dangling out into the emptiness, bag of seeds on your lap, and you stared emptily at the sun, tracing the same path it always did.  You couldn’t understand just why you couldn’t snap yourself out of all of this.  

When your brother checked into your room to announce that dinner was served, you could physically sense his alertness to your positioning.  You didn’t think it was bad, your window was set above your desk, so really, it was just a hop down to your desk and then you’d be safe again, but you still felt the tense energy.  He didn’t ask you to come down, but he walked over to you so cautiously you thought he might have just been dreading you letting yourself slip down.  

You almost laugh at that, but instead you keep your eyes set on him, with that same low energy you haven’t been able to pump back up.  

“What’s for supper?”  You ask, as if that would magically push him back out of your room.

“Dave.”  He doesn’t need to repeat it for you to understand the question.  

“It’s nothing, Bro.  I was just a little upset, those crows didn’t come today.  And I was just, yeah...”  

He doesn’t have to say it twice, even though he’s said nothing at all, so you hoist yourself back into your room, landing soundly onto your desk.  

He lifts you off the desk by your armpits, and you let yourself go limp in his hold, pretending you weren't too old for this even though you knew better.  He holds you up longer than necessary, and you can’t quite help how sad your gaze is as you look down on him.  

“I love you, Dave.”  

You nod dumbly, and mumble it back once he’s finally let go of you.  You like your brother.  He’s understanding.  He doesn’t ask you too many questions.  He seems to know what’s going on with you, and doesn’t demand any justifications out of you.  You like your brother a whole lot.  

“How about we go to the movies for supper?  I’ll let you buy as much cinema crap food as you want.”  

He knows you’re going to say yes.  But you still nod with as much enthusiasm as you can find.  

“If you want, we could even talk on our way there.”  

You roll your eyes and punch him lightly on his shoulder, but you already feel a little bit better.  

“Don’t count on it.  But let me get changed first.”  

“You look fine.”  

“I’m in pjs.”  

“No one is going to care about that.”  

You end up getting changed, but you have to say you’ve always appreciated how much freedom he’s given you.  You also like how much care he’s given you.  Suddenly, all John related problems are far away, and you can only think of the great gap you feel in your chest when you think of leaving home.  

You swallow it back down.  That could wait for some other day.  

The following morning is a good day, and you feed your crows peacefully, without saying a word, for once.  

 

 

\------------------

 

Last night, you’d made it back a lot later than you would have liked.  The sky had been dark, and you could spot at least hundreds of stars up above.  You were positive your heart was going to fail you when you’d walked past the security guard, and once you were out of the lobby, you’d raced up the staircase, and John had caught on quicker this time.  He’d laughed at you when you’d arrived on the dorm’s level and had almost cried through your heaving breaths.  You had tried to punch him, but the energy failed you, and you only ended up with you hand over his shoulder.  And he’d given you that look he liked to give you, and that had been an entirely different reason to bolt away and to make sure you could jump into a free shower before curfew.  

No one ended up scolding you, and you truly felt as if you’d gotten away with something you shouldn’t have.  John ends up showering at the same time as you, you think your two showers are the only ones occupied, the younger age groups probably already in bed by now.  But you don’t speak to one another.  You’re maybe a bit too tired to bring anything up.  That had taken a lot out of you, spending that time with him.  Surprisingly, it wasn’t as if you wanted some space now, you could still handle being around him, but the quiet that surrounded you was the perfect compromise.  

He beat you back to the room.  And when you'd seen him rummaging around your bed, you thought for sure it was to set down the sleeping arrangement he’d improvised on the first night back to space camp.  You hadn’t put down his silly fort, and surprisingly, you hadn’t been scolded by anyone for that either, and it had stayed intact over the day.  Realization hits you right before he ducks out of the hanging sheets, with a brilliant smile.  

You’d forgotten how you’d gotten permission to borrow one of those camping lanterns that he’d wanted.  You’d forgotten that you’d slipped it in next to his pillow.  He must not have checked in the bed when he’d come back for his card.  He’d been so ecstatic that he’d exclaimed, without hesitation.  “Looks like camping tonight, Dave!”  When he corrected himself to say ‘David’ instead, you mouthed the name for him, expecting this to happen.  

Your two roommates had seemed to shoot you apologetic looks, or so you believed.  So you’d slept next to him, again.  But you’d been careful about removing your shades this time, the lantern leaving no place to the imagination as to the hue of your eyes.  He’d held your hand in your sleep, and you hadn’t been surprised.  

Today, he’d woken up as if he were the happiest person alive, and it was still such a contrast to the boy you’d once met, angry with the entire world, and angry with himself too, it had always looked like.  He didn’t suffocate you with his presence.  His presence was soothing however.  

You felt weak for thinking so.  

You would have really thought that after yesterday, he would have been sated.  He found out a few things about you, he got you to break the rules, you’d even ran in the streets with him.  That had been sort of exciting, right?  You would have thought he would need some downtime by now, and that’s what it seemed like.  Because he’d been distracted and quiet through the morning, all smiles and giggles whenever you came close to him, and that was fine.  That wasn’t too much.  But it didn’t last.  And in fact, it had lasted even shorter than it had yesterday.  

You didn’t even get to make it to the cafeteria.  And this time, it was lunch time too.  You’d been ready to eat something.  Alright, not much, because you’d never really enjoyed the food here, but you had been willing to sit down and stay calmly in order.  He’d grabbed your wrist though and had you running in staircases with him again, without much of an explanation.  

You had to ask him, and to repeat yourself twice for him to finally come to decide that it would be quite wise to share with you what he was suddenly up to.  

“Dude, ok, so.  We are going exploring.”  

You had fully been expecting an elaborate answer, entailing many details and careful directions, but you’re barely stunned to hear him answer in such a bland manner.  You shake your hand out of his grasp and slow down your steps.  You were climbing higher than the dorm level, which explained why he’d picked the massive and old staircase, the only one that led up as high.  

“Can I at least know where we will be exploring?”  

“Alright, so.  I kept noticing it yesterday in the top floor’s lab...  There’s a trap door on the ceiling, I’m sure it leads to the roof!”  

You stop your steps completely, your face is twisting as you try to bring up an image of the laboratory.  You hadn’t noticed anything like that.  

“There’s like no flat surface to this place’s roof.  I’m not really sure you want to find a way to get up there?”  

“Oh whatever, even if we can peek our heads out and see the sky from up there, it will rock!”  

You stare for a few seconds, secretly enjoying his childish amusement.  Wordlessly, you turn back and start tracing your steps downwards.  It takes the time of one step for him to hop down to your level and to bounce down the steps with you, his own face angry and upset at your attitude.  

“Man, you don’t have to ditch me so coldly!”  

“I ain’t ditching you.  I’m just getting our prized lantern, we aren’t going to explore in some dark corners of this huge building without some sort of flashlight.”  

He bursts into laughter, and you have half the mind to believe he’s laughing at you.  But you still like the sound of it, light, clear, and high.  

“I like this.  You have the soul of an explorer David.”  His voice sort of lingers off, as if his sentence wasn’t truly finished.  

It dawns to you that the last word he was looking for was ‘Strider’.  The idea that you don’t know his last name either makes you feel uneasy, and you don’t bother trying to add on the last word, too scared of how awkward that will make things.  You can’t believe you’re actually trusting some guy who had despised you, when he tells you he loves you.  Without any knowledge of your last name.  Then again, you believed your friends when they claimed they loved you, without knowledge of the shape of your face, or the shade of your skin.  

You know that those two cases are different, so you let it go without a problem.  

“I have common sense,” you mumble.  But he never catches it, or never acknowledges it.  The lantern is easily retrieved, and he’s the one to lead the way back.  He grabs your hand and holds it as if it’s even more precious than the lantern he carries with his other.  It doesn’t unnerve you as much as you think it should.  But that might have something to do with recognizing the way his hand slips into yours when you’re on the brink of sleep.  You’re learning to accept it with a certain graceful ease.  

You’re happy he’s the one leading, you’re not so sure you could have found the lab by yourself, but he doesn’t hesitate once.  You’re even more surprised when he nudges the door open, as if he’d always known he wouldn’t find it locked.  You go along with it.  You’re not so sure why.  You’re still a bit hungry, you could have really sat down and eaten a yogurt or something.  And you don’t keep the time on yourself and neither does he, and you might be late for your next activity.  And there was absolutely no way that you’d let anyone climb onto the roof.  And yet, you smile as he lets go of your hand, puts his lantern down on one of the stations, and twirls with open arms into the empty room.  

You honestly also like the emptiness.  It’s intimate in a way that is deeply serene.  You try not to let that on and put your hands on your hips as you glance around, anywhere but at his stupidly attractive smile.  There are only a few windows in here, and they are very far up the wall, and quite small, the light projected into the room feels like sunset material, but you know it’s just the type of windows and their positions.  The sun is at its highest point right about now.  You debate turning on a light, but decide against it, not wanting to ruin the somewhat mystical atmosphere.  

When you glance up ahead, there is no sign of the speculated trap door.  You let him know as much, thinking there might be time to go catch that yogurt after all.  

“So, looks like that trap door must have been a trick of the light.”  

“Yeah, you wish!  Come on, I’ll show you, I know you’re dying to see it.”  

You’re once again hit with the notion that you should run away from him, that he might just end up to be a lot more dangerous than you could possibly imagine.  You don’t run.  And you follow him into the side room where there are stacks of books, tools, and assorted substances lining up the walls.  The fact overwhelms you as you register just how irresponsible it was to keep these sorts of things unlocked and easy to access.  You could probably concoct a bomb with whatever you could get under your hands in this lab.  You don’t mention it, and you watch him shift around, smiling brightly and openly as he investigates.  

He comes back to your side, putting an arm around you and pointing up at the door in question.  You’d expected it to be on the ceiling or something, but it was on the wall, blandly in sight and overlooking the largest bookcase in the small room.  

“Right there!  It’s been driving me crazy, I need to know where it leads.”  His voice has fallen to a whisper, and it bothers you in the same way that the arm around you bothers you.  

But you only stand your ground, crossing your arms quietly as you observe the so-called mystery door.   

“There’s no way we’re getting up there,” you decide wisely.  You find you aren’t being too aggressive and you think that might be a good thing.  You didn’t want to seem too harsh.  At the same time, you do know that you’re being docile and easy because you’re actually enjoying the time you’re spending together on the topmost level of the building.  

You don’t give that another thought though.  

“Sure there is!”  Somehow he sounds peeved with you, even though you’re being as courteous as you can really be, given the situation.  

He lets go of you and you are both relieved and disappointed.  You don’t have much time to mull over the mess of your emotions, seeing as he’s decided to take the bookcase as a rock-climbing wall.  

“Woah, hey.  Alright, I really don’t think that will work in any way.  Seriously, like, no.”  You keep half mumbling as you practically leap across the room to push your weight against the bookcase, hoping that it will keep it from tipping over and completely suffocating John.  

He doesn’t even pay attention to that, and you swear you can hear him whistle as he keeps posing his feet onto the spines of different books, and hoisting himself further up.  He is sort of reminiscent of a monkey, and at least there is that little joke of a thought to keep you from shouting for him to get back down to safety.  You know it’s just a couple of seconds for him to find his final footing and to victoriously sit atop the large bookcase, a couple feet above you, but the eternity you find within these seconds is very much real to you.  

You’re busy trying to convince yourself that John is alright up there, and you’re busy long enough to miss him pulling the trap door open as easily as if it were a cork.

“Alright, perfect, I’m just going to crawl in here and find some pathway to the roof, you’ll see, I can guarantee that this will be the single best thing of our lives.”  

“John, wait!”  You can hear his sound of surprise, somewhere atop you, and you’re not really surprised yourself.  That had been uncharacteristically expressive of you.  Your grip on the bookcase is surprising as well, a tremble you could sense in your wrists and your knuckles going very white already.  

It takes a lot of self-control for you to step back from your position without completely falling over yourself.  You hesitantly take more and more steps back until you can catch sight of him, cross legged and pouting as he seemed to wait for you to tell him ‘go’ already.  As you’d previously thought, wherever the exposed door could lead to was dark as ink, and you restrained yourself even more as to not scream at him.  

He asks you, not hesitantly enough you think, “Go?”  

And this time you’re only a hair away from losing your resolve.  

“No, absolute-fucking-ly not go.  I didn’t make you turn back for a flashlight for jack shit no reason!  You have a fucking lantern and that is a fucking black hole of oblivion-”

He actually cuts you off with his laughter, and you are so flabbergasted by it that you can’t really find your flow of swears again.  “Wow, you’re so wound-up, it’s sort of cute!”

You hiss for him to shut up through gritted teeth and you make to get out of the room, but not before gesturing wildly towards him to stay put.  It somehow makes him laugh harder.  You sort of hate him.  Only sort of.  

And when you get back, having retrieved the lantern where he’d put it down earlier in a somewhat panicked pace, he doesn’t even move from his spot, seemingly bored as ever as he watched over you with humor filled eyes.  

You’re a standstill for a little while.  He’s staring down at you and you’re staring up at him and no one makes any moves.  You feel sort of like a loser standing there clutching the lantern, and he looks like he’s feeling way too smug about his accomplishment.  

“Are you going to climb up here and join me?”  

Your cool is really starting to slip and you can’t for the life of you try to see if he’s realizing it; or even try to take a few steps back to find out.  This shit is stressful as all hell, and that’s all you have to say about it.  

“That thing is going to fucking flip over if I try to turn into a mountain goat like you did.  Actually, it’s a wonder it hasn’t tipped over already.  And do you know how catastrophic that would be?  Dude that bookcase is like twenty times the size of the doorframe.  Which just has me questioning if they fucking built this fucking bookcase before they built the walls around it, or if it was like legitimately built in here, but yeah, basically.  If that thing falls, we are both going to fucking hell.”  

You suppose your speech could have been slightly calmer than what you’d just pulled out of your mouth.  

“Aw, man, what about heaven?”  Is all that he finds to answer.  

And you are seriously furious now.  Why is he acting so childish?  When you’d met him he had all the bitterness of some old dude going through his midlife crisis.  You were not alright with however he was reverting to whatever childhood he’d missed out on.  

Except that you’re alright with it and you manage to calm down a little bit.  

“Can you just come down here and come get it?”  You think you sound patient enough, but it doesn’t seem to really cut it because he starts clutching his hair and whining abundantly.  

“Dude, no.  Did you not see me crawl up this thing?  It was super hard, I’m not doing it again.”  

“Oh my god.  You are actually a baby.”  

“Throw the lantern up here!”  

You’d really rather not be throwing anything of any kind.  Throwing is not and will never be your forte.  But you walk up to him anyway, and he lets his legs swing out and hang, and he does look somewhat attractive.  But you’re not thinking about that.  You think he’s saying words of encouragement, but by now you’re ignoring him because this is requiring your outmost focus and attention.   

You throw it upwards and by some miracle it doesn’t descend back to collide with your head.  The miracle is John and he is laughing his head off, snorting something about you looking as if you were about to launch the lantern into your own face when you’d thrown it to him.  You’d really take offense to that, but you’re busy backing up again, surveying him with outmost seriousness.  

He rolls his eyes when you don’t join him in his laughter and takes a good amount of time to maneuver himself into a kneeling position.  You were about to avert your eyes, now that you could only catch sight of his backside, but the way he’s clutching the lantern with only one hand is irking you.  Mostly because he didn’t bother to turn it on.  

“Fucking use the lantern you asshole.”  You’re almost seething, and you don’t know if the fact that he’s still not taking you very seriously is a sign that he hasn’t caught on or not.  

You hear him complain faintly and you can finally breathe out and look down to your dirty shoelaces once you see the light flicker on.  

It takes you an entire moment to understand that he’s fallen quiet.  It takes you an even longer moment to figure out that he’d frozen up on the spot, arm extended out into the opening and lighting up whatever passage he had been wishing to squeeze his way through.  

“Do you see any signs of the sky?”  You mock, but he stays quiet.  

You’re surprised when he pulls his arm back out, he manages to sit down in the same way as before, lantern still turned on and resting uselessly over his lap.  

He makes a few attempts to speak but it it all sounds as different combinations of the ‘uh’ onomatopoeia.  

“Oh man, this better not be some messed up horror story, like a hidden morgue, or I don’t know what.”  He’s supposed to laugh at that but he never does.  

Eventually you only utter one word, a shy and squeaky, “John?”  

And that’s when he finally gets the hang of laughing again.  The chuckles are slow and very deliberate, as if he’d calculated for them to come off as convincing, but it falls flatly.  

“I mean, it’s not messed up.”  He shakes his head slowly.  

You wonder why he isn’t hopping his way back down yet.  

“Was it brain shatteringly disappointing?”  

“No, it’s fine.”  

His sigh is heavy, but he isn’t looking at you.  You wait for him to elaborate, even though you’re nervous for him to come back down.  The sooner he is back on solid ground, the better you will feel, or so you think.  

Finally, he speaks up and he looks at you as he does, but it almost feels as if he’s looking through you instead.  “Yeah.  I guess it’s just like the chute for the elevator?  The one no one ever uses?”  

You nod in understanding.  He adds, “Yeah, I mean, it looks like the elevator is at the first floor.”  

You don’t nod.  

“Were you just going to crawl in there before I stopped you?”  

“Yeah, and free fall to some really weird death.”  

He laughs heartily, but you don’t laugh at all.  

“Alright, yeah.  Come down here already.”  

It’s a difficult process, his arms look weaker when he tries to push the trap door back closed, and you note that he forgets the lantern up there, but you don’t make any verbal note of it.  You make sure to lean your weight against the bookcase again so that nothing wobbles out of place.  You don’t actually think it helps all that much, you still do it anyway.  

He barely has the time to land next to you and to glance your way with this pitiful sort of look; that you’ve wrapped your arms tightly around him.  It’s the sort of hug where you’re breathing hard and where you know that he must know exactly how hard, because your chests are lined up and pressing together almost painfully.  It’s the sort of hug where you get to rest your chin on his shoulder and let the energy in your eyes go almost dead as you only concentrate on squeezing him as tightly as you can.  

The only person you’ve hugged like this has been your older brother.  Other hugs in your life are quite rare, not that you haven’t had them, but you’ve never initiated them.  They’d always been pushed onto you and you’d had to shakily try to not look too awkward when returning them.  You initiate this time, and you’re shaking for different reasons.  

“What the fuck?  You would have died.”  Your voice sounds somewhat hollow, but his laughter feels warm and full against your ribs.  

“Yeah, I would have died without you.”  

His voice goes softer, and just like that you physically feel it when he moves from stressed and disbelieving, to sweet and cuddling.  You feel him nuzzle his cheek to your hair, and you swear to god you thought of jumping back across the room.  But your body was so set in keeping your hold on him secure that you don’t manage to work out how to do that again.  

“Don’t make this romantic, shit, this is important.”  

He only answers with “I love you.”  

You don’t know why you say it back to him.  And you’re happy when he never comments on that.  

 

 

\------------------

 

Honestly, John cannot say that today is anything but a really bad day.  

Nothing had quite set him off though.  It’s a typical day.  The sun is out, and there isn’t even that much snow on the sidewalks.  The cafeteria served pizza today, and god it was as good as always.  And his classes hadn’t been so bad, he got that one essay back and he knew he hadn’t really put much effort into it, but he’d found out that he’d done quite well.  So that was nice.  It wasn’t even as if anyone had gotten in his way today.  In fact, he’s pretty sure that girl in his physical education class was sort of hitting on him.  She even tried to slip him her number, but he’d played the oblivious card on that one.  

And maybe, just maybe that was the one thing that had set John off.

It wasn’t that the girl had acted rudely, or anything silly like that.  In fact, he thought she was sort of great.  And she hadn’t made a scene or anything when he’d just looked the other way and laughed the whole thing away.  It wasn’t like it was a bad event.  But just like that, just with that singular occurrence in his day, it had not so delicately stripped away the shadow looming over his recent musings, and all at once his thoughts were squirming with uncertainness and uneasiness.   

John still did not live his life according to fate.  However, he’d started to believe it would have been much easier if he had.  He wasn’t so used to second guessing his decisions, but ever since...  Ever since he’d turned his best friend down, that had been a whole lot more complicated.  

He’d always viewed romance and such as a faraway thing.  A prestige of adulthood, possibly.  It was going to be there, it just wasn’t there yet.  It was a bit of the case with David too.  Though he’d felt the urgency to move closer to him build up over the years, he’d still placated him as his future significant other.  Someone he would be with, eventually; only eventually.  And there was no rush there, it was going to be at a later date.  Just the same, his eighteenth birthday was approaching now.  

And suddenly, like never before.  He was aching to find out if it was really the truth.  If David really should be the one for him.  He had to know, soon, so that there would be no lasting damage between Dave and him.  

His brain screamed; selfish, selfish, selfish.  He wasn’t going to turn his best friend into his safety net, only because he had the absolutely confirmed knowledge that he had a thing for him.  That wasn’t alright.  He knew that, of course.  

The problem was that his motivations were, only for once, of a purer nature.  Eliminating the possibility of developing something more with him had felt...  Utterly wrong.  

It felt like a bad omen.  And though he’d initially thought he could shake it off.  It had never succeeded, and now here he was, much later on, with it still constantly drumming down on his mind.  What was he supposed to do?  

And it made him angry to think of that sweet girl asking him out casually.  Not angry at her actions, but angry at Dave’s.  Because there was never anything casual about Dave’s feelings.  And where John could have guessed from the beginning that the love Dave felt was genuine and wholesome and heartfelt...  His friend's recent desolation had been much the same.  And hadn’t managed to erase any of that love, he could tell himself that much, even if he sometimes worried about it.  

Why did Dave have to be so invested in everything?  John feels bad for blaming his dear friend for his misery, when the misery he was causing in return was probably much greater.  But he was tired of Dave’s heartache being so evident, and he was tired of being the cause of it.  And he couldn’t regret the way he’d handled himself more.  He should have made sure that he really did want to be with that David, who he’d hardly spoken to.  He should have made sure before throwing his closest friend overboard...  

The feelings only grow when he gets home and Dave is yet again offline.  It was fine, he was always cool with Dave having a busy social life.  But Dave was heartbroken.  He should have been at home clinging to John, he shouldn’t have been off and about.  John barely has the presence of mind to feel slightly worried about what Dave could possibly be up to.  Was he staying safe?  He wasn’t doing anything stupid, was he?  

He couldn’t know, and he almost didn’t care.  And he missed Dave.  He missed him, even though he’d never met him.  

The feelings become so overwhelming that instead of trying to convince Dave’s chumhandle to blink into life with his stare, he instead settles with collapsing into his bed.  

He presses his arm to his stomach and he lets himself bask in whatever the feelings wanted to progress into.  He curls in further into himself when he registers them as being similar to what he’d felt for the boy with the weak stomach and the aviator shades.  He’d been so sure he was in love.  Then why was he feeling the same way for someone else?  

He convinces himself that it’s his tiredness speaking, that it has nothing to do with anything, that it will pass.  But he ends up curled even deeper and blinking sadly at his phone as he called a contact he’d never called before.  

He wished he could have Dave’s number instead.  But Rose was the closest he had.  She liked to claim she read him as an open book, and John knew that it wasn’t really true, but he still envied that capacity anyway.  

When the line picks up, he still wishes it would turn out to be Dave on the other side.  

The voice is a girl’s, and she announces the conversation with the line, “Hello, John.”  

And at least it pulls a grin out of John.  He likes how he can recognize Rose through the voice, even though they’d never spoken.  She’d tried to take that impressive tone, as if she’d foreseen that he would be calling, and he had the sensibility of telling himself that she had caller identification, and that there was really nothing impressive in that.  

“Hey, Rose.”  

She does however seem to pick up on the disappointment that lingered in his voice.  

They had to exchange casualties for a little while, and here as well he could appreciate that she was just sinking him into comfort.  He’s almost shocked to recognize her so much through her voice, as if her text had translated that well.  He wonders if it would be the same with Dave.  And if he would fall more so in love with him than he already had with someone else.  

He breaks out into topic a lot more suddenly than she had tried to sink him into it.  “I don’t love Dave, do I?”  

“Do you?  You did reject him.”  

The topic doesn’t take her by surprise.  And he stays quiet even as she asks him a question here and there.  

Dave felt familiar, and David felt phenomenal.  And thinking of both of them at the same time gave him a headache, how he wished with all his might that their names would sound a bit more different in his mind.  

“It’s nothing romantic.”  He tried to conclude it all with that.  Because he could convince himself of that.  Dave was his long lost brother or something, and he couldn’t even come to understand how he’d managed to find sentiments of amorous love for John in the first place.  

“From what I know of Dave, I do think he’s favoring the feelings of safety over those of romance.”  

She must have sensed that he’d stopped listening after that one line, as if he was concentrating to find the meaning behind it; because their conversation did not last much longer.  Though John did make sure to thank her a good dozen of times.  

When he fell asleep much later, all his feelings seeming to be a lot bleaker by then, he couldn’t help but to imagine that he probably didn’t look all that safe to Dave anymore.  And once again he had to press his hand to his stomach to keep himself from reacting to the idea of someone falling out of love with him.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for still reading!!!


	11. Prismatic Love

The trick was to keep busy.  The trick was always to keep busy.  In no time you were starting to feel better.  You were no longer thirsting to get home whenever you left school or such, and accordingly you started accepting offers to do things and to go places with acquaintances.  You were even volunteering when you knew you could actually get away with simply going home; you didn’t really care to hang around home for too long.  

You’d been spending as much time as you ever had on the computer, it wasn’t as if you stayed under your covers and cowered away from it like you had that one week a few months ago.  But, of course, it was very different now.  The change wasn’t immediate, and your understanding of it was even slower.  You spent time online only to pass the time, not in an actual desire to be online.  And spent most of it torturing yourself by not contacting your friends and waiting for them to do so.  You understood belatedly that you’d never really hesitated to initiate just about everything in the past, and you force yourself to understand that no one is actually or genuinely dying to converse with you.  You still initiate of course, daily almost, but the conversations lead to nothing and you’ve beaten yourself down to that one point where you can’t really ramble confidently to catch their attention.  John says nothing about it, Jade says a lot but it’s not really about it, and Rose repeats herself until she’s too tired to say anything about it.  

So your time had become that ample time where you had to coach yourself through breathing and assure yourself that you were fine, and that really you were too good for any of these feelings.  It wasn’t a big deal, but it was making you miserable.  Neither could you reason why you’d become this way.  This still wasn’t like you.  And though you had your brother at home, and somehow he’d managed to maintain his status as your number one fan throughout the years, his attention was becoming a bit suffocating in contrast of your slowly collapsing friendships.  

Being out and with people was an easy remedy and had you forgetting about the still growing feelings.  And if you could occupy your time efficiently enough to be busy up until your bed time; then you were pretty much set, weren’t you?  

Maybe that’s why you got a job at that grocery store that stayed open for too long at the end of your street.  It’s a big corporate one too, and you were always a fan of being able to drop by up until one in the morning for any of your night cravings.  It wasn’t the busiest of schedules nor the most challenging of works, and most of the time you were stuck stacking shelves right at the end of your school day, but other times you got to tend a cash register and stick around until closing hour.  And when whoever was in charge of locking up asked for someone to hang around to keep them company, of course you said yes.  

In a way it was surprising that you actually could keep busy with work that late at night, and in another it wasn’t that surprising.  There were all those teenagers who had food cravings in the middle of the night, very much like you, though the drug induced ones were a little bit less like you.  And there were the night workers, you’re sure.  And those with forlorn faces whose secrets you could not crack.  It was nice, and it wasn’t your too bright computer screen reducing you to a faded version of yourself.  

Tonight was no different, in the sense that it was Friday and you had been able to keep yourself busy until one, and you were going to crash after your shower, and make sure to organize plans to keep yourself busy over the weekend too.  And you stuck around for closing, as you liked to do, without even really making sure that that one girl with red dyed hair wanted any help.  It turns out that all four employees at the cash registers, including you, are still bumming around the entrance, and you can’t help but to wonder if today is special.  

They strike up conversation with you, it’s not unusual.  But on a norm they’ll really just give you directions and reassure you that you’re doing a decent job; you guess they’re only just a few years older than you, but that space still seems to put a lot of weight in between you.  You wonder if you come off as younger.  

Well, they know enough about you to know your graduation is coming up.  They ask you if you’ve started to get answers from universities.  You tell them ‘Yeah’.  And they all over congratulate you when it comes up that you haven’t heard anything negative from anywhere so far.  They still insist on making fun of you for applying to so many places.  You just shrug.  

And by the time you step out into the darkened street, you get to know that they’re actually going out all together and it’s why they’d hung around for so long.  They invite you, and you ridiculously do not want to go, but you say yes, because an opportunity to stay out longer is an opportunity to keep away from feeling overbearing self-pity for longer.  

You get into that redhead’s car, it’s an old model, and you think she might need to change cars pretty soon, the only other guy who gets into the car tells you that both the air conditioner and heater are busted.  He takes shotgun, and you sit behind him, smiling briefly to the second girl, who smiles back with a shyness you’re familiar with.  You’re aware of all of their names; yeah, seeing them with name tags every other day will always help with that, but you don’t really dare to refer to them with those, or to even address them by their given names.  As if it would be breaching a new barrier of acquaintanceship.  You suppose getting in the car with them without really knowing where their destination was could also help those results.  

There is no reason for you not to trust them.  So you don’t worry during the ride.  You look out the window, down at the wet pavement from the day’s earlier shower, and up ahead to swirls of no clouds and no stars.  And everything hits you with a tangible reality that makes you feel slightly faint.  You can’t really recall when was the last time you’ve eaten.  

They seem to be aware enough that you’re not really of the age group permitted to enter the club they had their hearts set on.  So you wait behind with the guy, and it takes much too long you find before the shier girl comes back to you two, licks the back of her hand and presses the club’s stamp to your hand too.  You think it’s gross, wet, but it works, and you breeze into the club with her, without even paying.  Which is a good thing, you suppose, because all you have with you is your phone, no bus card, no cash.  

You tell her that, once you’re inside and up the stairs, but it’s dark and loud.  She still manages to tell you she’ll pay for your drink.  You don’t want a drink.  You try to order a Shirley Temple, and she seems bothered by that, you do end up with a red drink though, and you have to wonder if it truly is non alcoholic.  

But you make short work of consuming it in the hopes of feeling a little bit less faint.  It’s a number of minutes before you lose sight of those you’d come with, and there is no way to describe how much you want to go back an hour or two in time and just decide to go home to stare blankly at your computer screen.  You spend maybe ten minutes looking for someone you might know, and as you observe the people around you, you really don’t think anyone seems to truly be communicating.  Aside from eyeing each other like pieces of meat.  You feel sick, but you like this particular song so you hang around a little longer.  

Your eyes search for the DJ, and you think you might just flash him or her a smile; maybe they even knew your Bro?  You feel faint again when you’re faced with just how removed the turntables seem to be from the party.  If there is anyone who looks as if they aren’t partying in the slightest, it’s whoever is behind those things.  You feel sick.  

You head out of there.  You don’t bother to look for a bus station, you just start walking.  The pavement is still wet and now you’re getting a little bit tired, and you’re still not so sure there was alcohol or not in your Shirley Temple.  You’d only requested it because you knew it wasn’t supposed to have any.  

You don’t honestly want to come home, and you understand that perfectly as you take random turns into random streets, without a glance towards names.  If you’re perfectly honest, you just want someone to hold you.  To hold you and reassure you that you’re alive and loved and that you won’t be lonely.  You try to imagine your friends occupying that role, but even as you do, a different face comes up.  

And you know that’s not the right John.  But you’d felt sick at the planetarium too, and he’d let you rest on him, and that was maybe the closest you’d been to someone holding you together.  

His face still manages to convince you to call back home.  

You’d forgotten to tell your brother you weren’t heading directly home after work.  And suddenly the thought of a DJ being lonesome is a tad more bothersome.  

You have to sit on the curb after he promises you to come pick you up.  

When he finds you, he doesn’t hold you, but you think he might almost look like he might want to.  You don’t mention it.  

 

 

\------------------

 

 

On Tuesday night, he doesn’t sleep with your hand clutched in his.  But he hasn’t returned to his own bunk either.  You haven’t made your bed a single time since Sunday, and your fort stays moderately unchanged over the course of the week.  But, last night, he hadn’t held onto your hand.  And you know why.  

Because you’d wrapped your arms around his body and curled up your legs to press against his, and you’d slept like that and woken up in just the same way.  

You’d held onto him and had let yourself be somewhat anxious and somewhat saddened.  It’s not as if you’d cried, but you could have sworn you had felt the sobs resonating dryly in your ribcage.  It was stupid.  And he was even stupider.  But your heart must have stopped yesterday, with images of scenarios you’d only narrowly missed.  When it had started beating again, it was off.  And you felt off, and he loved you he said, and sometimes you almost felt as if you loved him too.  You didn’t like looking into that though because when you did, the proof of the unreciprocated feelings simply went missing.  

You wake up to his voice and your only reflex is to disappear farther into the covers and closer to him.  His voice doesn’t cease, and so you let out some sort of sound to request a repeat.  His hand touches your hair and you relax further, remembering a year ago, a year ago to the day you believe, when he’d soothed you in an uncharacteristic way.  

“Breakfast is half over already, we’re going to miss it.”  

“An adult...  Can miss breakfast.”  

Some of your words had been lost in sleep translation there, but essentially that was the message you wanted to convey.  As an adult you were going to go ahead and simply skip it.  

“A responsible adult needs breakfast.”  He reminds you, and you’re starting to think he might have been awake for quite some time with how clear and articulated his words are.  You want to knit his words into a blanket and cocoon yourself in them; and that’s exactly how you know that you aren’t awake enough for the real world yet.  

“No, responsible adults need...”  Love?  Hugs?  Cuddles?  

Really none of the things that came to mind and that could pass off as believable were things that should be said.  

He supplies you instead with “Sleep?”  and you do think that you might be starting to like him a lot more.  

“Sure,” you let out softly.  You never string it off into anything else because you can feel his fingers through your hair.  

You’re once again tempted to tell him that you love him, and it’s a fight to keep it down.  You didn’t know where this was coming from, but you felt...  Better?  Maybe; around him.  As if your organs had shifted into their right places instead of the spots where they would usually get clogged up and made you tense and unhappy.  But, inside of this fort, with his hand in your hair, you felt better.  

“Let me sleep,” you request, and you think it’s the perfect ruse.  

He hums in response and this time his laugh feels as if it’s tickling your insides instead.  It’s not bad.  You don’t really mean to fall asleep of course.  You want to stay there and concentrate on the way his fingers move, and how it feels, and how the light is perfect with all the sheets up like this.  You attempt to do so, and it works for a little while, but the way you have to even out your breathing to convince him almost pushes you back into that sleep you’d claimed.  

Maybe you’d fallen asleep again and had never realized, but the next thing that you hear is his voice again.  “You aren’t even sleeping, are you?”   

“Jerk, I was,” you reply automatically, and it almost feels like a believable coverup.  

“Yeah, you’re lying.  You just want me to keep petting your hair, you’re practically purring.”  

You don’t even have to fake a gasp, it comes out naturally.  

“I’m pretty sure you’re the one who wants to pet my hair, so don’t even.”  

“I’m just aiming to please.”  He’s unbearably smug for such an early hour.  

You manage out a little and wheezy ‘I hate you’ though it’s the opposite of what almost comes out, and you push out and away from him.  He mutters small words of protest when you plant your feet into his shins to back yourself up, but when your eyes find his with the new space between you, they’re painting a perfect portrait of his wide smile.  

His eyes happen to be your favorite shade of blue.  You curse with how obvious that is, realizing belatedly that you hadn’t been touched enough last night to forget to put your shades away.  You’re rubbing the sleep from your eyes, but afterwards your hands simply hover over them, your face somber as you try to find a way out of this one.  

His laughter doesn’t make things better, but his words do, somewhat so, in a strange way.  

“Hey, you clung to me like a koala for hours on end, you’re not going to play the shy and coy card now are you?”  

“It was dark,” you protest in a brief moment of outrage, giving him an unimpressed look from in between your fingers.  

“Well, it’s the first time someone’s wrapped their limbs around me just because it was a little dark.”  

He’s way too playful for the soft, sleepy, and cosy mood you were in.  So you end up covering more of your face for brand new reasons: like the total embarrassment that has flooded your expression.  

“That’s because it was the first time someone saved you from a totally stupid death.”  

You’ve decided to turn away from him, always an easy option.  

But he decides he wants to wrap his arms around you now, and it’s not really like you can use the excuse of personal boundaries, not when you’d made it recently clear that you didn’t really set any in between you two.  One way or another, you’re sure he’s just kissed the top of your head, because you can feel him breathing and smiling into your hair; and it’s all too fast and much too soon.  Even though your insides still feel as if they’re repositioning themselves into something extremely better than you’d ever hoped for.  

“Maybe it wasn’t?  It probably wasn’t.”  He’s not joking, or his playfulness has suddenly and amazingly become subtle.  

Or maybe it’s because now both the mystifying blue of his eyes and the friendliness of his smile have vanished from your sight.  Regardless, you shiver sadly and fold your hands over his, somewhere over your still readjusting organs, and you will the moment to freeze forever.  It’s scary how comfortable you feel with a person who’d shifted opinions of you so extremely.  It’s probably best not to get involved with him.  But you ignore that for now.  

“Dude, would it really have bothered you that much?”  

He doesn’t need to point out that he’s speaking of his potential death, you’d been able to catch on.  You nod your head.  Because, even though you feel that you shouldn’t, on some level you can understand his degree of surprise.  Ultimately, he wasn’t a necessary part of your life, right?  But you’d seen enough people being thoroughly effected and changed by deaths of mere acquaintances.  

Then again, you’d known him for so long now, he always seemed to be that small constant in the back of your life, showing up every summer or so.  And he noticed you, thought about you a lot, you imagine.  And somewhere, under the coldness and barriers you’d built in response to his aggressiveness; you were interested in him.  In the way that he must see things, in what’s going on in his head, in the way his hands moved or maybe the way his lips moved when he spoke.  You might have been infatuated with him from the very start.  

But that had never felt like a justifiable and noble thing to pursue, up until very recently.  

His question had long passed, and he must have just gone along with your nod as an acceptable answer, because you register his breaths slowing to match yours.  You think, briefly, that now it really was too late for breakfast, and that the others might return soon, but that wouldn’t really matter because this fort space was your own personal space, invisible to the other inhabitants of the room.  

“I would have broken down.”  

You predict it’ll take a while for him to remember what you were referring to exactly, but it also takes a while for you to analyze just how true that could be.  How something happening to this person, who you didn’t really feel as if you knew, but was somehow close to you in an effortless way, would have been the last straw.  It takes longer for you to understand that that statement is completely undeniable than it does for him to let the statement sink in.  

“It’s alright,” he whispers it in the very same spot you could have sworn he had kissed, and the rest of his sentence must radiate through his hands and into yours.  But as it remains unspoken, you can still feel him telling you that there’s no reason for you to break down, that he’s holding you in and together.  

When you breathe in, it’s painful.  You’re not really sure if you like how the interior of your body feels like when it’s curled up against his, but there isn’t much you can decide on as of now.  

You fall asleep.  And he’s not holding your hands, you’re holding his.  

It’s a lot harder to wake up the next time, and the brightness of the light has enough of an impact to agitate you into the awareness of being unable to be on time today.  When you turn away from the wall, it becomes even worse.  John had pulled the sheet made curtain to be able to peek his head in.  You remember that he was supposed to be spooning you or something, but there he was, fully dressed and apparently ready to go.  

“What happened?”  You ask him uselessly; your voice feels raw against your throat.  

“I reported you as sick and I promised to come check in with you during the day.  So, here I am, can I do anything for you, fluff your pillows?”  

You sit up and your vision blacks out for a moment or two, so you carefully crouch back into the pillows, one hand covering your eyes.  You still hadn’t worn your shades today.  

“What time is it?”  

“Doesn’t matter, you’re staying in bed!”  

“But I’m not sick.”  That was true.  You hadn’t been hanging in bed because you were sick, you just felt like staying safely in bed for a little while, it certainly did not mean you wanted to skip out on the day.  You’d never want that, really!

“You’re not feeling well.”  

His voice sounds different, and when you finally work up the courage to move your hand away from your vision, he looks concerned.  

You don’t really like that look on him.  You think his best look is when he’s being playful and light.  You didn’t like it when he was angry.  And you didn’t always like the way he looked at you, and especially not now.

“I’m feeling fine.”  You really are.  

“Dude, you cuddled me like there was no tomorrow.”  That’s an exaggeration, you weren’t that bad, you know that you weren’t.  “I must have made you feel really horrible yesterday and...  I guess the only thing I can think of is of giving you the day off so you can shake it off?”  

He’s uncertain, unsure if he’s doing enough for you or not.  That’s silly, he doesn’t need to do anything.  Though you guess you can’t really say he’s that much off the mark.  

“I don’t want to take the day off.”  

“Look, you already slept through most of it.  I just came in to check on you before I go down to grab  lunch.  I’ll bring some for you too, and we’ll eat up here, alright?  And then it’s just a couple more hours of rest before we’re done messing around with science shit anyway.”  

You sigh and bring the covers back up.  You feel like you’re someone close to him who is incredibly sick.  The truth is you’re just not feeling very well, that’s all, but you guess he knew that much.  

Either way, getting to eat lunch in bed, in your pajamas, with him playing with your fingers whenever you take a break from eating, is really comfortable.  It doesn’t take much for you to fall asleep again once he’s gone.  And his promise doesn’t fall as flat as you would have expected.  It doesn’t take very long for the day’s activities to be over, and it barely felt as if you were alone in the room at all.  In fact, it had recharged your batteries just as he had claimed it would.  

You didn’t expect today’s night to be the hardest part of the day.  

It had spiraled out of control more or less randomly.  You knew you weren’t bound to the same scrutiny your younger peers were bound to here, the proof is you sleeping with a campmate night after night without being noticed.  One of your roommates, Ryan, decides to celebrate the halfway mark of the week with a bottle of alcohol he’d smuggled into his belongings.  

You don’t get the chance to tell them that this is all a very bad idea.  And it takes more than a little while for them to finally listen to your suggestion of possibly sneaking outside to get hammered, and not doing so in your dorm.  That was really for your own benefit anyway.  

You guess that it’s alright, that they’re adults and that, come on, this was typical.  But when the three had arrived at the room, accompanied by a few more girls you recognized to be of your group, all giddy and excited about their improvised _not so much of a party_ gathering, you hadn’t been exactly thrilled.  You’d just played the card John had conveniently handed you earlier, and had claimed sick and proposed to stay on the lookout instead.  

So that’s how you wound up spending the evening sitting comfortably outside of your room, playing different songs on repeat as you isolated yourself from any possible questions from onlookers; all thanks to your beloved headphones.  It wasn’t really your scene, even though there was barely anyone in there sharing that bottle of...  Was it vodka?  You’re not sure, you know you’d used the wrong liquor name earlier and all of them had laughed, including John.  

You’re honestly a little stunned that it takes him so long to come find you, and when he does, you’d ceased expecting it.  

He nudged you with his foot, and you barely had time to let your headphones drop to let you hear his words.  “You aren’t even sick, c’mon.”  

There were tons of possibilities as to what you could have answered.  You know so.  But nothing comes up regardless, and you end up only scrunching up your facial expression before pretending that you were busy with your now pretty ancient phone.  

“It’s not a big deal that you’ve never tried it before.  I could let you have a little tiny sip and then I’ll hold you to make sure you don’t start throwing up, it’ll be fine.”  

Your eyes are not leaving your phone’s screen now, even though you were now in the clocks menu.  You always told yourself that you should delete some of your clocks, but you could never bring yourself to.  It’s not even as if you needed a reminder to know your friends’ timezones, but it felt a little symbolic.  

“You know, I went to a club this one time.”  Fine, you were going to take his bait.  He is totally treating you as if you were the bane of all things cool, and you weren’t about to stand for that.  

He gasps, and you almost glare at him for how loudly he does.  You glare even more so when he displays an incredible lack of coordination to sit by your side, and knocks into the door almost violently as he leans back onto it.  He really could not have drunk that much, and you briefly wonder if this might actually be his first taste of liquor, not that you were judging him, not with your own status.  

“No way, that is so illegal, Dave.”  

His face is glowing red and it’s making you feel drowsy.  But he uses your real name and doesn’t correct himself and it entices you into shutting down your phone and scooting just a bit towards him.  

“I’m an outlaw,” you tell him with a smirk.  

But he doesn’t smirk back, his eyes are lost, as if truly wondering over the state of your morals.  “No, can’t be.  You’re the goodest person I know.  I can’t say goodest, can’t I?  Geez, this is really embarrassing.”  

He slumps back against the door, and you keep scooting closer.  He was warm.  And his words were warming you up too.  Was that how he saw you?  As a good person?  Even after that whole purchased eBay shades fiasco?  

“Well, yeah, I didn’t really like it.”  

It takes him a moment to catch on that you had shifted back in the conversation, now referring to the particular occurrence of you going clubbing.  

“Huh?  What was wrong with it?”  

“I dunno...”  You do know.  And with a heavy sigh you let out the first few strings of thoughts that resurface.  “I don’t know?  Like, the DJ looked so much like an outcast, and I didn’t want to think of my brother, and it was just weird.  I didn’t like it.”  

“You have a brother?”  

Right.  How could you have forgotten who you were speaking to?  Maybe he was too far gone to argue your logic, so you give it a shot.  

“What brother?”   

When you look at him though, he’s lightly clutching his head, and his eyes are shut in a way that almost seems pained.  He groans at your words, and you guess you weren’t that misleading after all.  “You never ever talk about your family.  I hate that.”  

You try to answer, but his sigh is so loud that you just let him ramble on.  “I’ve always known that you deserve a perfect picture family.  We should make a picture perfect family together, right?  That’s why we met, right?”  

You shrug because your throat is doing bizarre things and you’re not so sure you could find it in yourself to summon any instance of your voice.  

But he leans in closer to you this time, and puts his hand down on your knee, and he’s putting all his weight on it, and it hurts, a little bit.  But he looks sad and confused enough that you don’t dare to push him off.  “Right?”  He repeats, and you still shrug.  

“Uh...  Do you think you could show them that door that leads to the parking lot?  I know it has no alarm on it, and I really want to sleep.”  

And that’s finally how you get them to drain out of your room.  You feel slightly bad for making John do your work, but his balance seemed off and so did his eyes, and you kind of wanted him gone for a little while too.  

You take the time to finally deconstruct your fort and to rebuild John’s bed above yours.  That’s all it takes to finish you off and to knock you back down into your bed.  You feel almost wounded as you crawl under your sheets, but you’re betting it has more to do with spending most of the day in bed, and nothing to do with your feelings and what John really meant to you.   

That theory comes crashing down when the lights are switched on, before you can even collapse into sleep.  You would have guessed that he would have accompanied the other kids, not run back to you as if to make sure he’d done a good job.  

“Oh no, our fort!”  

“Go to bed,” is all you manage to mumble out.  

Of course, he tries to climb into your bed, and it doesn’t take too much of a rough shove for him to fall out of it.  You’re worried when he doesn’t instantly sit back up and stays on the ground.  

“Dude, you ok?”  

But his ‘no’ rings out with such a high pitch of a whine that you assume he’s just upping the melodrama in a fit of alcohol and tiredness.  “Go to bed, John.”  

“You kicked me out of the one I want.”  

“Do you want me to take the top bunk?  I don’t mind.”  

“I want the one that has you.”  

His whine hasn’t changed in the slightest and the sound of it almost pushes you into inviting him back in.  You try to stay stronger than that though, and you somehow succeed. 

“You think you want that.  But here, I’ll tuck you into your own bed and everything?”  

He never answers you so you take it as your signal.  You step out of bed and hold out your hand.  He only closes his eyes and refuses to take it.  So you pick him up off the floor, grabbing him from underneath his armpits.  All he does is lace his arms around you and rest his head against you.  His face is against your neck, and he’s either drooling or crying, but with the energy that he’s radiating, you think it’s definitely crying.

“Come on, don’t cry.”  

You blink rapidly, the notion of his tears almost tempting you into shedding a few of your own.  

He hugs you tighter and doesn’t answer.  So you lead him to the ladder built into the wall shaping up the unit of your bunk.  At more than one occasion you are convinced that he’s lost his footing and is falling backwards.  But after imagining him falling levels and levels down the elevator pit in every way possible, it doesn’t really affect you.  You do follow him into his bed and tuck him into his covers as you had promised.

He watches you with large reddened eyes, and you feel bad, but not bad enough to cave in.  So you take his glasses off for him, and fold them and rest them off to the side as you do your own glasses every night.  

You don’t find any words.  So that’s when you leave him, returning to your bed hastily, as to not let him take the opportunity to invite you to stay in his bed.  He looked so miserable in his own bed, still dressed in his day’s clothes, hair messy, and face slowly getting blotchier.  

In comparison, you feel snug in your own bed, your pajamas loose and comfy.  You find out that this feeling of ease does not last, and you rest your head directly onto the mattress so that you can hold on to your pillow.  

He keeps calling your name in the dark.  And it’s not ‘David’, it’s just ‘Dave’, and every time that you ignore him you feel your defenses progressively weakening.  

But you don’t let them drop, and he continues, every few minutes or so, in a confused tone of voice, as if he’s expecting you to pop out from underneath his sheets, as if you’re just playing a trick on him and wouldn’t send him away from your bed like that.  

Eventually he starts stringing different words, as if this would entice you to question him and to get the full story.  Even so, you don’t hear him shifting up ahead, he’s staying put, as if frozen in place.  

You don’t know at what time your two other roommates come back because you manage to fall asleep before that.  But before you do, you hear John’s suddenly much more lucid affirmations quite clearly.  

“You know, the first time we met?  I thought maybe you looked like an angel, but I was never really sure what it was I thought.  But...  Now I think, it looked like you were about to spread these golden wings and fly off to the sky and leave me there.”  It gets quiet for a little while, and you can more than imagine how wet his cheeks must be.  “You’re my soul mate, I know so.  Because I can see your wings sometimes, and I don’t want you to fly away.”  

You have absolutely no idea what any of that had meant.  But you find your cheeks to be wet too anyhow.  Maybe it was that beauty he could see in you that you couldn’t bring yourself to believe.  Or maybe it was that awareness that he wasn’t able to keep you with him.  Or maybe it was because you felt as if you were hurting him.  

You felt as if you were hurting him and you hadn’t really meant to.  You hadn’t meant for this.  

Your grip on your pillow tightens.  The only words you ever give him to reassure him are, “I’m sorry.”  

And you don’t hear another word from him after that.  

You wish you didn’t feel as if you were breaking his heart.  

 

 

\------------------

 

John Egbert made a lot of jokes about abandonment issues.  He made a lot of them knowing that he probably did hold some vestige of that particular topic within him.  He made them, without ever taking whatever fear of abandonment he might still be harboring seriously.  

Honestly, he felt as if he’d grown a lot.  He could tone it down when he felt his manipulative side sneak up into everyday interactions.  He could acknowledge that some of his behaviors were unfounded and unnecessary, and he could reel that stuff back in when it happened.  He’d come a long way, he would tell himself when he felt not so good about himself.  

If he really did have some big issues with abandonment, he didn’t let it rule over his life.  And he didn’t look into them whatsoever, as if that would help them fade into nothingness.  It wasn’t an extremely big deal, he felt like, and so he felt rational in his decision not to get too up close and personal with it.  It was just something buried within him, something that irrationally feared that others would start leaving.  But he could let that be deep inside of him because it was irrational and no one was about to drop him.  He was ok.   

Except John Egbert does not feel that ok anymore.  John Egbert is eighteen years old and his biggest and best friend for ages is most certainly giving up on him.  And what he’d first saw as Dave taking some distance to sort his feelings out and not let them get in the way of their friendship, was turning into a nightmare.  Dave Strider was giving up on John Egbert and John Egbert felt as if his mind was rotting, as if rage was clogging up his every vein and as if suffocation suddenly came to him quite naturally.  He could not think, he could not breathe, he could not live through their falling out.  

Dave was and always had been his closest friend, someone who occupied a generous portion of his time, someone who’d been through so much with him, someone he wanted to be there for him.  But, he wasn’t around much anymore.  And whenever John thought up scenarios to where he could be instead, it was summoned with a deep sense of blinded bitterness.  And though, both of their common friends had told him time and time again that it just genuinely seemed as if Dave had a busier schedule as of late, what with how he’d started working and all; he just doesn’t buy it.  And more than too often, he wonders with a lost sort of fury if they were all interacting just as much as ever and that it was only him that was being dropped away from the group.  

It was a lot harder to let whatever issue he had with other people stay buried within him when Dave was truly letting him go.  

Sure, they talked.  Maybe every day or so.  But it wasn’t really talking anymore, was it?  Just the quick formalities and then the conversation would go stale.  Most of the time, he felt ready to break down and to beg Dave to go back to the way he was, and to fill up their chat windows with details John had never asked for, and to just go on and on.  Dave had become quiet though, and he never found it in himself to demand him to be anything different.  

He didn’t feel he had any right whatsoever to request anything from his friend now.  And the strain on their friendship started building to the point that they could both be online, and nothing would be exchanged.  Both would look the other way.  It was almost as if their close bond had never been there.  

And he felt as if it was slowly killing him.  

It was killing him to lose his closest friend because of unresolved feelings.  

It was killing him that he was as accessible as he had ever been, but somehow could no longer find any courage to approach Dave.

He wondered if maybe, maybe it was just the built up stress over not knowing what the future was holding for him, over not having yet made any plans, over not having pulled his life together yet.   Maybe Dave was going through the same thing?  He wouldn’t know, they hadn’t shared any plans, and he realized that that was his fault.  

But he hoped dearly that this only meant that it would take a little time.  A little time for John to finally understand what he would do with his life, and then the conversations would happen as easily as they used to.  

He tells himself this, on the harder days.  But even when he repeats it on easier days, he can’t chase away the fear that, if he takes that time, it might be too late and that his once best friend will have moved on.  Not only will he have finally fallen out of love with John, but he will have deserted the friendship.   

On the harder days, his thoughts are much the same.  But he also realizes that these are no predictions.  That perhaps, everything he was secretly fearing the future would hold, had already happened.  Maybe it was already too late and maybe he’d truly lost his best friend, entirely and effortlessly.  

Dave never brings up any serious friendship talk, which strikes him as odd.  Because in the past he’d always been the one to manage to rope them into it.  Trying to introduce the topics through jokes and uncaring attitudes, but always dropping the act as soon as John asked about it.  

But nothing was brought up.  And John lost himself in a quickly burgeoning hatred, which he thought he could manage to direct towards Dave, but which he also knew had his own name written all over it.  John had made too many mistakes, and the price he was paying now was almost too painful for him to handle.  

The chances to make it right start multiplying before his eyes.  But he never really works up the courage to grab hold of them, instead fueling the undirected hatred.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone! I'm afraid that I'll be away from the computer for the next week, but I promise to update next Saturday without fail!!!


	12. Shattering Recognition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait everyone; thank you so much for reading, hopefully you will enjoy this chapter!!!!

It almost felt as if it had snuck up on you.  At one given moment, your universe had very defined lines and boundaries, roles in which people fell systemically, and everything was in order.  At some moment, it must have changed.  And a moment, even later, you’d realized that there was one person who’d managed to slip away from the designated roles and boundaries.  You no longer felt it true to call John Egbert your best friend.  Sure, you still did.  And whenever you referred to your ‘best friend’ in conversations, you were always alluding to that boy in Washington you hadn’t met.  

He’d also gone missing from that section labeled ‘love interest’.  Which was almost a relief when you could convince yourself that you were conveniently over it.  The truth was that you still pictured John as your number one best friend, and that your heart still did speed up when you thought of the possibility of building on this friendship.  In reality though, there was a gaping hole in both those spaces.  And though you really didn’t think anything could tear you from your friends, given that unreachable distance had never managed to do so, the lack of communication had given the fatal blow.  

You blame yourself more than you blame him.  And at random times, no matter where you are, maybe in the bus, maybe in the shower, anywhere and any time that you give yourself time to ponder over this deteriorating friendship; you feel the very real need to cry.  Most every time, you manage not to.  But the need to is still there.  

Things were changing; alright.  But you’d never protested change so strongly through your emotional drive before.  Even when John had merged from that best friend category to love interest, you had still taken it well.  But you also remember that day.  You remember returning from space camp for the very first time, and finding a spot of safety and comfort in the message that John had left you.  Maybe that was the problem.  

Maybe that was really the root of it all.  That hadn’t snuck up on you.  You’d identified John to an idea of home and love.  You hadn’t seen your falling out coming, and you hadn’t picked up on it when the feelings had changed.  You’ll admit that that must have taken away a lot of that element of safety and of comfort and of homeyness...  

You blamed yourself more than you did him.  But you still blamed him too.  He’d let you slink away from him.  You’d turned the other way, and he hadn’t followed, he’d simply walked away, or so it felt like.  And as the periods of time in between your actual conversations grew and grew and you watched it all unfold before your eyes, he didn’t offer any emotional responses to the very real emotional distance in between you.  Even when you apologized to him profusely, out of the blue, pushed by that guilt of the unnoticeable change in your relationship, he’d basically shrugged you off.  

So you’d made the space between conversations a permanent thing now.  Or...  That’s what you’d made yourself do.  A few days ago, it had been officially a month since you’d spoken to one another.  A few days, it had also been your graduation from high school.  Were you really going to take a step into the adult world without your best friend?  It no longer felt as if you had a choice over there.  

Every day so far had been a struggle, a struggle not to crack and to beg for his attention again, for everything to revert to the way it was when it was just the two of you laughing over stupid things day in and day out.  But even if the struggle was present, every day that you moved further into your vow of silence had your sense of confidence building.  And speaking to him now would be admitting defeat.  He’d walked away from you, so you could certainly return the favor.  

But never in your life had you pegged yourself as a cruel person.  Keeping that up was a bit tricky because John hadn’t imitated your silence.  In fact, it was barely a week after you’d decided to put up permanent space that he’d sent you a message, wondering what you were up to.  

The messages hadn’t stopped after that.  And it was killing you.  Because you felt like replying would be caving in.  Coming off as the little puppy who would run back to his master at any given word, and maybe you’d once acted like that.  But you were tired of being expendable.  You deserved better than those feelings that would submerge you when you had to fight down all the unease that came with the idea that you were his no longer needed friend.  That guy who stuck around only because he hadn’t gotten the message that it was over yet, even though everyone else could see it.  You didn’t want that.  

Nowadays, you’d go out to jog when the urge to give up your initiative kicked in.  It was stupid.  You were a terrible runner and your ankles twisted at least once a mile.  You had no appropriate running shoes or even clothes either.  You were sure that running around in jeans and converses only had people thinking you were late, not that you were out for a jog.  But you still did it, and with every step that you took, you had to repeat to yourself “You are better than this.”  

Maybe, maybe it was the truth.  Maybe you really deserved something more than this.  But even if that were the case, you had a hard enough time believing it.  You could tell yourself over and over again that you didn’t really look that bad, and that you weren’t really that daft, and that you worked really extremely hard to make yourself a worthwhile person.  And that someone was bound to fall in love with you, someone was bound to like you even a little bit.  But your heart still protested, and you still wanted your longtime best friend.  

Falling in love with your best friend had supposed to be the safe option.  It was supposed to be safe and easy and full of trust.  And that had lasted, for quite some time, and you’d even convinced yourself that it might work itself out in the end.  But it had turned sour this year, and had turned inside of your chest too, and thoughts of it were nothing but distressing now.  You’d been turned down, and that was fine.  But you’d also grown apart, and it disgusted you.  It disgusted you because it made you feel at fault, that you’d collapsed this whole friendship with your unneeded feelings, and John hadn’t made a move to convince you otherwise.  You were at fault.  

You were at fault, but you still didn’t pick up the phone when he called.  And he called excessively so, ever since he’d gotten the number, you presume, a week or so ago.  You’d never answered, but when you’d looked up the regional code from the caller identification, there was no doubt in mind whatsoever that it had been him.  You also presume that it must have been Rose the culprit, the one who’d given your number out, but you don’t dare to be upset with her.  You guess John had enough of a reason to ask for it.  

But you don’t answer, even now as it rings and wakes you up.  You almost do answer, on impulse, and it feels like it was just a moment ago that you’d fallen asleep, lulled away with chaotic thoughts and questions on just how far you were willing to go to finally find some self-worth, the same debate you’ve had every night of this last month.  

And you’re furious.  It is the dead of the night and that jerk still hasn’t learned your time zone probably.  And god do you love him, but he’s hurting you impossibly so and you’ve had it with his careless attitude.  He was your best friend, he was supposed to care for you, to be there for you, to help you through these things.  But nothing was as it sounded and you weren’t the model best friend either but you had tried and tried.  

You forgo answering your call and slide through menu screens until you’re texting away in your very aged pesterchum application, ready to tear him a new one.  Of course, the only thing you eventually come up with is:

TG: stop calling me

And you could have sworn that was a lyric from an obnoxious pop song, a long time ago already, but you couldn’t even care how your words would come off to be.  You just wanted this to end.  

EB: i wouldn’t have to if you were just online from time to time!   
TG: im online plenty   
EB: fine.  i wouldn’t have to if you just talked to  me from time to time.   
TG: or you could just talk to me first   
TG: i dont see why im taking responsibility for so much shit   
EB: fuck, dave, i’ve been trying to constantly, you don’t ever reply anymore.   
TG: look its just that   
TG: no screw this i really dont want to talk about it  

You move to shut down your phone because it was just too much too quickly.  Hadn’t spoken in a month, and it was only a few lines in and you could feel your gut twist with the tension of arguments.  If you were going to fight you were going to wind up breaking down, you could feel it.  But his blue catches you off guard, and you give him a slightly better chance.  

EB: wait, shit, don’t go.     
EB: dave, you’re my best friend.  i don’t want us to do this, i want you back.

And that was probably it.  Just a few simple lines and your heart simultaneously gave you the signals of breaking and of mending.  No matter what, him pulling out the best friend card had ways of resurrecting your love more strongly than ever.  

TG: im sorry    
TG: i dunno   
TG: i dont think itll work out   
EB: dude, no.  we can make it work.     
EB: listen, let’s just talk it out honestly soon, alright?  i need you.     
TG: shit ok yeah but   
TG: maybe not in the dead of the night alright    
TG: lets talk some other time soon

You don’t give him the chance to answer.  You feel a little awful about it.  But you also felt a little awful about yourself.  You were never going to escape these feelings.  And no matter how many times you chanted that you were just too good for this...  It was also all that you really were.  

 

 

\------------------

 

You pick up on your head hurting before you even take awareness of waking up.  And when you press your hands over your face, it reanimates the soreness there in a way that has you hissing out your breaths.  You feel it in your temples when your eyes open and there is no solid or even weak argument you can make against the reasoning that you must have fallen asleep crying.  The sensation is familiar to the rare times you’d done it as a child, in a stupid fit presumably, and you try to berate yourself about last night’s occurrence, but it’s hard when the information floods in with a delayed timing.  

You probably cried at a pretty standard frequency.  You think being sensitive but guarded is a good combo to assure you some tears in your private time.  But you typically made sure you felt at least good enough not to keep crying before ever hitting your pillows for the night.  You remember that these pillows are not your usual room’s pillows and blink into the awareness of your location.  The recollection that you’d actually been sharing this bed for the previous nights you’d been here dawns to you even slower.  And after that, the memories crash all at once.  

No matter how sore your face really felt, you still buried it into your pillow, groaning desperately.  That fucking John kid.  He deserved to be kicked out of your bed.  He was delirious and intoxicated.  For heaven’s sake, he was depicting you as some weird winged soul mate descended from the skies.  Or something, you don’t remember the precise words he’d used.  

Except that, in truth, you remembered every word specifically and your chest felt a bit wonky and your face a bit warm when you turned them over in your head.  What he’d confessed to you was a synonym to love at first sight and it forced you into putting yourself into that very first moment as well.  

You don’t want to be put into that position of course.  And it is incredibly tricky for you to let your mind wander off to those details because there were some there that you did not want to acknowledge and quite possibly wanted to repress.  

The day had been warm and you’d been awake for too long, drained with the drive there.  The lobby had been too noisy and there’d been too many kids around and you’d just wanted to focus on something else.  You were thirteen and it was going to be the first night that you slept away from home.  You’re not so sure what you had wished to capture with your camera, but surely you’d been aiming for lonesomeness, to step away from the chaos of too many people and too many too quickly forming bonds and friendships.  

Yet, he’d found you.  That John kid, the one who’d looked angry at you from the very beginning, but who told you now that he had adored you from the very beginning.  You only remember one sentiment related to the very first time he’d called you out.  It had felt as if someone had found you.  And you guess that was true to some extent.  

But there was something deeply troubling in that sentiment that you didn’t quite dare emphasize.  

No matter how harshly you pressed your face into the pillow though, you still weren’t suffocating yourself and you were still playing those words over and god was your level of guilt ever increasing.  You just have the time to translate your headache to John’s undoubtedly greater one.  Sure, he hadn’t been hammered or anything, but if only tears was causing you this pain, you wouldn’t bet on the tears and booze combination.  

You barely have the time to think so because you hear him hop off the last few steps of the ladder and then feel him hopping into your bed.  Though you’d been a bit cautious and fearful that he was going to beat you up one day, you were almost wishing for this treatment now.  Partly because you wanted a reason to let go of this guilt, but mostly because you didn’t like other reasons as to why he was finding his place in your bed again.  

He’s not reading your body language very well.  You’re pretty sure that face down and gripping the pillow should speak for what it is; your partial wish for asphyxiation.  But instead you feel him cup the back of your head delicately, and you’re guessing he’s kneeling next to you with his weird happy morning expression on his face.  

“Dave...  David, wake up, we can probably get first pick on breakfast if we go down right now.”  

His voice seems a lot softer than what you remembered it to be.  Maybe that’s the voice he used to wake you up, you wonder if he’s tried waking you up in vain before.  You wonder the words you’ve missed him speaking in such a soft way.  You imagine the words from last night in this same thoughtful and soft voice, and you groan again.  

He probably takes it as a ‘let me sleep’ groan.  

“We’ll go down in our pajamas, and they won’t say shit about it because we’ll be gone come tomorrow anyway.  Do you sleep in your pajamas when you’re at home?”  

You grip the pillow tighter and sink your face further down, trying to clarify the message of your attempted self suffocation.  You’re breathing much too easily though and he probably can see that because he’s rubbing your back and he must feel your chest moving, but if he were any smarter than he is he’d understand that that was not deep sleep breathing.  That was, _why oh why did John have to mention that today happened to be Thursday?_

What were you going to do?  Were you going to abandon this John forever?  Have that conversation you’d scheduled with your other John and maybe abandon him too forever?  Then abandon your brother and leave for the other side of the country?  The future seemed bleak and lonely.  Maybe you could achieve great things, maybe.  But you imagined it as incredibly lonesome already.  

He interrupts your more than pessimistic train of thought with a hushed inquiry.  

“Do you sleep naked?”  He asks you, and you’re pretty certain that he’d been wondering about it for the last few seconds, since he’d last spoken, and also fairly sure he thinks there is no chance in hell that you will ever hear that question.  

Sucks to be him.  You just have time to see his startled expression as his eyes meet your fully awake ones before you collide your pillow to his face.  

“You pervert, get out of my bed.”  Your voice is probably gruff enough to let him wonder about just how long you’d been awake, but you make sure to look sternly disapproving as you flip back onto your back, arms crossed tightly over your chest.  

The pillow slips down into his arms to reveal the most pitifully apologetic face you’ve ever seen on him.  You feel yourself grin just as it shifts to slightly offended.  Your grin is also ephemeral as you eye the pillow, hazily remembering clinging to it with all your might as you fell asleep last night.  Remembering where he’d slept and everything else that came with that.  

“Seriously, get out, I already kicked you out once.”  

The pillow is dropped back onto your face and it’s your turn to bring it into your arms, though you let it cover the lower half of your face.  Not sporting your shades is always a weird sensation when dealing with people, so you might as well take this opportunity to compensate.  

You watch him seat himself more comfortably and you are under the very distinct impression that he will not be leaving any time soon.  

“I didn’t deserve it.”  

You know he’s looking for your approval even despite his own affirmative statement.  But you let it slide, glancing up at the underside of his bunk, having seen too much of the particular shade of his eyes.  

“You’re a bit cheerful, can you at least pretend your head is hurting even a little bit?”  

You’re surprised he understands that despite the barrier of your pillow, but he sounds completely chipper when he answers you.  “I feel great, so how about that breakfast in pjs?”  

“Your pjs are embarrassing,” you mumble even lower.  

Not really, they were sort of cute.  Forest green and checkered, the top matching the bottoms, the sort of crap kids wore on typical commercial depictions of Christmas mornings.  

He huffs out in annoyance, and gently takes your shield of a pillow away, and you’re left with your childish frown conveniently exposed.  

“Yeah well, your pjs are...”  You try to will him into completing the sentence, and he never does.  So, without much thought, you try to do so for him, using the word that had genuinely come up in your mind when thinking of his.  “Cute?”  

And that was it, the pillow had returned to you and he was out of your bed again, smiling a bit wickedly and a bit gleefully.  

“You know, for someone who doesn’t like me back, you sure seem to want me to flirt loads with you?”  

You follow him to the cafeteria after that to find a way to prove him wrong about his last statement.  You almost get in trouble for showing up for your breakfast in what you’d slept in, almost.  John jokes that this is what he wore during the day, and you stayed quiet, relishing in the safety of your once again adorned aviators.  

Honestly, after last night, you would have been convinced that you’d chased him away, that you’d hurt him just badly enough and pushed him back just far enough for him to stray away and to give up on you.  But he seemed just as enthusiastic, in fact he almost seemed as if he thought he had more of a chance with you now.  You’re afraid you have to agree with that.  

You want to feel bad about feeling good, but to put it simply, you just felt too good for that.  It was a relief to be able to put your barriers a bit higher up, and still see him there when you went to lower them again.  You guess you’d figured you weren’t all that much lovable.  And you guess you’d waited for his act to drop since Sunday, but you’d been yourself, and you’d been around him way too much, and he kept giving you these glances that still looked different than what they had been at the start of the week, but you can’t even name what they have become.  And, alright, you fully realized that it had just been a couple of days of interaction, but...  It felt like more.  It felt as heavy as his confession last night, as if it were as destined as he spoke of it being.  

You, of course, were supposed to be in love with your best friend, and you had been for years, really.  But as your relationship had begun to dwindle in the past few weeks, months even, you felt the love you harbor doing much the same.  It frightened you a bit because you’d always felt those sentiments to be true and deep and yet...  The dejectedness you’d been suffering through as of late seemed to outdo it.  

And this reminder sobers you up enough to not start swooning over this second John, because you were starting to think that maybe your heart was fickle and that maybe weeks from now you would have forgotten how you feel in this moment already.  

He’s obviously not dealing with the same thoughts and he keeps cheerful and energetic throughout the day.  Which surprises you because you’re hit with melancholy almost every hour or so, coming to the deep and disappointing realization that your time was really counted, in hours now.  It doesn’t get him down.

Your theory that he might have simply forgotten is eventually shot down.  It’s supper time and he gets you to take your meal to go, in that small cardboard box platter thing that some always take to eat lunch outside.  But that’s lunch, and that’s always accompanied by an instructor, and you do hiss out the reminder, but he’s still as merry as ever and only slings an arm around you and singsongs for you not to worry.  His amount of confidence is destabilizing enough that you almost hide behind him when you almost get in trouble, again.  

But he announces, without missing a beat, “Dave and I.  Uh, David and I are just going to hang out in our room because we’ll miss each other like crazy.”  

You think you don’t get in trouble because you must have looked as miserable as you felt when you followed after him.  For the first time, you didn’t want to go home.  You didn’t want to face upcoming responsibilities, and a definite and big change in your lifestyle.  You wanted to stay here where you knew at least one person loved you; because you couldn’t imagine that certitude to make a comeback later in your life.  

You’re distracted when he brings you downstairs instead of upstairs.  And you actually laugh quite loudly when he jams the door open leading to the parking lot.  You should have suspected that he’d make you go there after you’d pushed him into getting everyone from your room out there last night.  

You’re not sure if he knew why you were laughing, but he laughs with you regardless, and instead of annoying you, you find it incredibly endearing.  You try to reel back in the overly sweet smile you share with him once the laughter fades.  No success.  

“Why is this better than the cafeteria exactly?”

“Do you have to ask?”

“I have to ask.”  

You laugh again and he joins you and you feel like holding his hand, but instead you look down at the packed meal you were holding up, moving your fingers over the cardboard to better feel its heat.  

“Man, the cafeteria’s options are like...  Tables.  We can go eat up in a tree out here!”

“We are not eating up in a tree.”  You can see him preparing an argument, so you cut him off straight away, “You will fall and break your arm.  I can already see it happening.” 

He opens his mouth, his eyebrows drawing downwards in a way that makes you want to laugh way too much, again unfortunately, but you force yourself to keep a stern look, shaking your head just as sternly to dismiss the possibility of him being a graceful tree climber.  

“We can eat at that river we discovered!  Dude, that river should be named after us.”  

“Aren’t you tired?  I’m way too tired to make my way out there, and our food is going to be cold as Alaska.”  

“I’ll carry you.”  

“No.”  

Your replies are shooting back and forth now and naturally you’d walked out alongside him, sitting down at the curb of the parking lot, your meal on your lap, and mirroring precisely his own position.  

“Then fine, we can eat in the shade of the trees?”  

Your lips quirk upwards yet again when you take note of the not so welcoming shade.  It was starting to hit dusk, and though your sweater was as comfy and as warm as it could get, yes, even in the middle of summer, you didn’t quite envy his own choice of summer clothing which were infinitely more appropriate to the season than yours were.  

“Our food might not be as cold as Alaska, but you will be if we do that.”  You sigh once, pulling out the plastic fork they’d given you when you’d asked for a meal to go.  “We could just stay here.”  

You did.  You enjoy your food a lot more than you ever had indoors, and you guess you also owe him that, but you don’t mention it.  You eat slowly as if in an attempt to stretch out the minutes you have together.  And he sits closer to you, your legs pressed together now.  You don’t mind at all, and you guess those three nights of sleeping in the same small bed together had immunized you to his touches and were allowing you not to jump away or to find a way to simply pull away.  You guess from the goosebumps you see from his bruised knees that he’s sitting close to keep warm, but you let him in close because you like him.  You really do.  And there was no easy way of admitting it to yourself, other than just letting it slide as if it were unimportant.  

You’re not done eating by the time the silence pushes him into saying something.  His own box of food sat to the side now, finished some time ago.  He asks you the sort of question that shouldn’t be asked while you’re watching the sun set from a deserted parking lot.  

He asks you, “Hey, why do you want to go to space?”   

You’d never officially told him that’s what you really were going for, that whole astronaut business.  But he hadn’t really used that term either, had he?  And you don’t know if it’s because he thinks actually going to space is more important than the rank, but that’s how you feel, so you let yourself pretend that he was on the exact same page as you.  You wanted to pretend, that for once, someone was on the same page as you and they somehow liked what that page stood for.  

You set your food aside before thinking of replying.  You hadn’t really finished, but your hunger had been replaced with a blockage of different and more important emotions.  You know you probably get this weird look on your face as you mull it over, and you’re sort of self-conscious of him being able to catch your profile like this, as if he was going to guess every word left unspoken in the color of your eye.  You’re also aware of the way you start twirling a strand of hair in between your fingers as you give your best shot to explain it shortly and simply.  You’re coming off as nervous, but you’re not able to think of reeling it back.  

“I’m sorry, this is going to be weird.”  Deep breaths.  “I just feel like there’s so much all the time?  Like, there is too much here with too much meaning and all these things I am supposed to be and all these things that are supposed to mean something to me and--”  

Your self-consciousness wins and you turn to look him instead of looking off into the distance.  “I just feel like it would all become nothing if I could be up there.  If I could be without gravity...”  You hesitate with continuing, and you only find it in yourself to add a tiny bit more.  “You know, when I was a kid I thought there might be like an anti-gravity chamber at space camp, isn’t that stupid?  That’s mostly why I wanted to come.”

Your smile is apologetic, but he doesn’t respond with a smile.  Instead he grabs your hand, and it’s never felt as if you needed the gesture more than in this moment.  His eyes don’t stray away from yours and for quite some time, you genuinely think he will kiss you.  

He doesn’t, and you stay for a very long time with your hand in his, and with the night setting its colors in as you finally break the hold of his stare.  As soon as you do though, he tells you, “I love you.”  

And when you reply with, “I love you, too,” it doesn’t come out as uncertain or as weak.  You do not know if you’re hoping for your heart to be fickle and to abandon him soon or if you want it to remain faithful and to keep you in this state of mind for many years to come.  A million ideas of different feelings muddle your thoughts.  

They’re just muddled enough that that night you let him climb into your bed.  You share the same pillow, the one you’d hugged too tightly when in his absence.  There isn’t any simile fort to hide you from onlookers, and you don’t know what your roommates will think of the two of you hugging it out throughout the night.  You don’t really care.  And you don’t think that he cares either.  

He’d never asked more of you.  And you could never know if he’d understood what you felt from the very mere mention of it.  But no matter what it was that he saw and how different it might be from your own vision of the world and of your life, he loved you regardless.  There was no question now.  You’d believed him.  There was nothing but pure truth in the way that he had told you, and you didn’t care if that made you a fool, you believed in it.  

It’s Friday and your bag is already packed when you really do start panicking.  You thought you’d lost sight of him throughout the day’s preparations, but he goes looking for you, and finds you in the dorm room sitting on your bed, not just yours, his too, bag all set to go.  

The melancholy you’d felt was finally readable on his features when you let him know that you can’t stay for the graduation ceremony, that your bus was leaving in an hour and a few minutes.  

It’s when you see him panic that you feel it hit you as well.  You bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from any humiliating outbursts.  He basically throws himself at his own bag.  He’s talking away as he tries to find whatever it was he was attempting to retrieve.  

“Listen, I’m going to do something great for you one day, ok?  But I can’t lose sight of you, I just...”  

You add in the words ‘need you’ and you don’t find it presumptuous of yourself, because you can physically feel that they are the correct ones.  He sits on the floor finally, turning to you and using some random pencil he’d found amongst his belongings.  

“I know you had a pesterchum account all those years back.  I still use mine religiously, shut up, it’s not lame.  But like, we’re going to keep contact, ok?”  

He almost sounds desperate now as he hops up to his feet and bounces over to you.  You’d gotten up, bag slung over one shoulder, in the same way you’d carried your bag when you’d first met him.  Things were different from then, but still, they felt so close and familiar.  

You were going to reassure him.  That you were ecstatic that you could keep contact, that you would, that you loved him, that you had meant it.  He was special, and you understood now everything that he had meant when he spoke of the two of you.  That you used your pesterchum religiously too, that you were made to be, that it would all be alright.  

But he rips the page out of his notebook, and the scrap of paper only reads one word.  And it’s ectoBiologist and your entire world falls through.

The paper only reads

ectoBiologist

And your stomach is dropping too.  Everything is collapsing in on itself.  

“Yeah, I’ll...  Yeah.”  The last breath that you exhale is heavy and hard and you see the worry in his eyes and it’s the last thing that you see as you almost race out of the room.  You were going to excuse yourself, or say goodbye, or something.

But you couldn’t.  

You could barely breathe.  

 

 

\------------------

 

 

The conversations had been stale, but now they were gone.  He sent messages to Dave, heartfelt ones, very open ones that demanded the sort of vulnerability John could rarely showcase.  But he did it, and he went out of his way to do it, over and over again.  Dave did not answer.  

They hadn’t spoken in a while now, not since John had graduated.  A while ago, he’d figured out for himself that he just needed to straighten up his life to get his best friend back.  Once he had a clear plan of what he’d do with his life, they could kickstart their relationship back and everything would fall back into place and that made sense because that place had been occupied for years.  It was easy to go back to that sort of thing, right?  

That had been a nice thought, essentially.  But plans weren’t shaping up.  He had his high school diploma and all was well and good, but he had no direction in his life, and no best friend to advise him.  What was Dave going to do with his life?  He didn’t know, and the boy couldn’t seem to take the time to answer him.  

Dave’s blogs were flooded with activity though.  Dave was fine, Dave had time, but Dave didn’t care to answer him.  It surprises him just how hurtful that turns out to be, and how it seems to bring certain things he hadn’t wanted to investigate to a brighter light.  

His best friend had loved him unconditionally, hadn’t he?  He’d bend over backwards for him, was always at the ready to be present, to be of assistance, to be anything that John needed.  And he always seemed so starved for affection and love, and John wasn’t so sure how he could have figured that out just from the online side of things, but the way Dave instantly brightened up at any sign of camaraderie or any word of praise was plain even through text.  He’d loved him so much that both John and their friends has only safely assumed that it must have been something akin to true love.  Dave was in love with John, wasn’t he?  So John could afford to take any course of action and not risk the loss of his friend?   

He doesn’t understand where he miscalculated, but Dave’s absence is very pronounced.  He gets Dave’s number from Rose.  Without much effort.  Rose is aware of his distress, Jade is aware of it, his father is, everyone around him could sense the very ache of his emotional state.  

He hated how corny it sounded, but maybe he’d truly taken Dave for granted, maybe there was nothing else more he could pull from the present situation than that very knowledge.  He’d messed up so badly that he’d managed to kill off unconditional love.  

Dave doesn’t pick up the phone.  His blogs still update.  But he never picks up the phone, doesn’t answer John’s messages, and he finds himself starved for that contact.  

Some part of him tells him that it’ll pass, that it’ll just take some time to get used to that role going unfulfilled in his life.  Even so, details frequently bring back memories of nights spent together, of secrets shared, of games played, of conversations held throughout entire nights.  Those are the moments when he messages Dave, or tries his cellphone.  He’s aware that he could pour more of himself out there, he could make his distress more obvious to Dave, so that he could see it just as everyone else does.  But he can’t bring himself to, not when he’d been the very one to drive the boy away.  

Days pass and it gets harder, John tells himself that it will get harder, and then it will get easier for good.  But every little thing has him wondering and suddenly understanding more and more how selfless the love his best friend had kept for him really was.  He would have promised to be John’s significant other, without ever even requesting a detail or two on his appearance.  He loved him for what he’d shown him throughout their years of friendship, and had probably trusted that the rest would fall into place.  

He fights the urge to ask Dave out.  He fights the secret wish of running away to wherever Dave was going next, and just basing his life around him.  He fights the idea of trying to drag him back into the friendship with promises of requited love.  He does so in the only logical way he can envision, he imagines David.  He remembers the feeling of his hair, or of his hand, of his presence, of the beauty in his eyes.  He was in love with someone already.  And he might get to see him in a couple of days or so.  

Even so, he needed his best friend.  

He’s surprised when things start slipping through the minuscule fissures of Dave’s defensive and protective ways.  It’s late at night when he manages to do it the first time; they promise to talk it out.  

They promise to talk it out the day after that as well.  And the next one and so on and so forth.  The true friendship talk never comes around, but John feels insanely better, just exchanging those few lines a day, constantly rescheduling, but having to communicate in the first place to do so.  

God, he missed Dave.  

And suddenly John was only a day away from leaving for space camp, one final time, and possibly finally settling the relationship he’d been running after.

So they reschedule their important talk again, in a week or so from then.  And John lets a few things out that he hadn’t planned on, hadn’t really thought over at all yet.  

EB: hey, i don’t know if you want to hear this.  but, i think i might be able to give us a shot?   
TG: ok just so we are clear   
TG: i am taking that use of us as a romantic us   
TG: and youre an idiot if you meant anything other with that wording   
TG: also sort of an incredible douche   
EB: yes, i meant the romantic us.   
TG: yeah i mean   
TG: yeah of course   
TG: that makes perfect sense   
TG: except not really   
EB: i just need to sort this one thing out, and then from the outcome, we’ll see, ok?

Their final goodbye hadn’t exactly been warm and glorious.  John had a strong suspicion that Dave had seen through him.  He was going to go after the person he truly wanted, and if that didn’t work out, Dave would be a safety net.

He sort of thought it was a win-win situation, but even repeating it to himself he felt like somewhat of a jerk.

Truth be told, he couldn’t picture any sort of romantic conquest realizing itself anymore.  David was too good for him.  And it was starting to feel as if Dave was too good for him too.  As if he was doomed to nothingness, and the different people he was meeting were vowed for greatness.  

He locked away the idea of Dave, the idea of their broken friendship, and the idea of their possible romantic relationship.  He did so in order to properly think of the one he was going to try to win over very soon.

He locked that away as he fell asleep too though, unable to battle away the scenarios of his impending and permanent loneliness.   


	13. Accelerated Drifting

You could not have gotten out of there any quicker.  The scrap of paper with the written chumhandle found its way into your hoodie’s front pocket and your feet found the hastiest path to disappear from his sight.

From John.  From John fucking Egbert.  

You’d imagined the end of this week to go very differently from what had just taken place.  If only you hadn’t glanced down at the letters right away, you would have held him.  You would have held him and you hadn’t really planned ahead of that, but that had felt right in theory.  You, however, had glanced down and had let the word cut off most of your functions and replace any growing sentiments with pure horror.  

It should have taken you the better part of the hour to make your way out of the building and to walk all the way to the bus station, that’s what it had taken on Sunday after all.  But you feel as it takes an eternity of sitting on the station’s benches for your bus to finally start boarding.  You’d lost count of seconds and of other temporal indicators, but you’d pulled out his paper a good two dozens of times.  There was no mistake, no trick of the eye.  It wasn’t one letter off from your best friend’s handle, it simply was his.

You find a million ways to blame yourself throughout the bus ride.  You meet someone named John?  Your reflex should have been to ask for his full name, out of respect to your best friend, right?  Except he’d never mentioned being of Washington, and you hadn’t been familiar with the accent, but you should have been.  You should have asked!  Hell, you should have asked for John to give you a picture, online, you mean.  There had been no easy way to maneuver that though, and no matter how you would have typed it, it would have come across as creepy, you’re sure.  After all, getting his picture would have automatically entailed you handing over a picture of your own, and you had never really dared to take the leap.  You should have though.  You should have asked.  Or you should have looked his name up online.  You should have told John where you were going because not one summer had you mentioned your true destination.  If only you had told him, the two of you would have probably laughed at the coincidence and would have rocked out for the entire duration of the week.  

But, would you have really?  Your thoughts steer away from the self blame once you take seat in the bus, the one directly behind the driver, and instead plummet into painful truths.  Maybe you should have mentioned space camp, but it wasn’t really as if John had mentioned it to you in return, had he?  He’d been just as secretive as you.  And with that the blame you’ve pushed upon yourself evaporates somewhat with the realization that where you could attribute regrets to yourself, the same ones could be attributed to your best friend.  

Best friend.  If you’d recognized each other, you would have had the time of your lives, that’s what you had established, except...  

The bus starts to fill up without you realizing it.  You’re snapped out of your reverie when some stranger asks you to make room for him next to you.  A backwards glance lets you know that the bus is full, and that your tactic of grabbing the first seat in aims of staying by yourself has been dismissed for today.  You don’t mind, and you instead put your backpack over your lap, always too nervous to use the overhead compartment, in fear of forgetting an item or two.  

You don’t mind, but as your forehead touches the window pane, you have to squeeze your eyes shut.  You would emulate sleep until it came to you.  Because for now, all that you were and all that you could reason is that, in theory, John and you were not really the friends you’d thought you were.  That had been apparent in last months, of course, as the unbalance of your feelings had considerably weighed on the relationship, but now, with all this newly acquired information, newly acquired, but that had been right there for so long; you don’t know what to make of anything.  

You thought of this John that you’d met, even as you finally manage to somewhat fall asleep, in a position that will leave your neck and jaw sore, but that is the comfiest you can achieve in this space, you thought of the boy you’d met throughout the summers of your years.  He was distracted, he was authoritative yet lonesome, he jumped moods and he didn’t back out.  He’d been mean to you, you were able to admit it, even when putting to light who he truly was.  But he was also so taken by you.  

He was worlds different from the boy you’d grown up talking to and opening yourself up to.  Your John was almost alluring in the way he distributed his attention, as if any second glance, as far away as literal as it could be from over the web, was worth infinitely much and was calculated down to every breath and detail.  He wasn’t random.  He was a contrast, his head sometimes in the clouds and sometimes, he was focused and self aware.  And he’d always treated you with a fair chance, as a friend.  There was never any place for him to be cruel, or to be enticed by you.  And you’d noticed that he didn’t leave place for that with anyone.  But that mystery person, you recall.  The mystery person who must actually be you.  

It must have been.  Because you were going to have a big talk with John soon, this week you think, and he’d worded it in a way that you understood that if he didn’t get his way, you might just be his second choice.  Second choice from you.  And now everything is tight in your head and begging to break out.  

Spending half a day in this confined space is no longer a good idea.  Your head has never felt this full.  You stumble out and into sleep, sun progressing throughout the sky all the while.  Every time you can slip your eyes open to catch sight of it, thus calculating your remaining time of travel, you can’t battle off the logical outcome of your somehow tragic situation.  

There was no nice way to put it.  John had felt passionate about you from the very first meeting.  It had somehow evolved from negativity to something...  Something you still had trouble believing could be feelings aimed towards you.  But, honestly, all he’d gotten out of these summers was your exterior.  And what you’d offered him over the years were definitely your insides, everything that you were.  And he rejected that part of you, he didn’t want that.  When he was going to put two and two together, and he was going to, he’d reject you a second time.  

John, your home John, your buddy from the internet John, he knew you like no other, and that had been entirely your choice.  But maybe, that had not been mutual either.  Maybe he hadn’t let his real colors through, after all, now that you were trying to push the two identities together, you were greeted with more than just a few surprises.  But then again, underneath those things that you did not recognize, you’d recognized something familiar, hadn’t you?  And you’d found yourself reciprocating his feelings in no time, as if something was calling for you to recognize him.  

Your head hurt.  

Your head hurt so much that when your brother surprised you at the bus station, you found no energy to startle or to be happy to find him again.  

He catches on quicker than you would have anticipated.  He starts listing off the food joints the both of you typically enjoyed when it was the dead of the night, but he readily accepts your lack of hunger.  You’re honestly a little bit weary that he is going to ambush you soon or have some sort of an intervention.  You’d been acting off for some time now, and having you return home even more off than you had been surely wasn’t the ideal present to offer him, you knew that.  And you don’t think he’ll let you run off to college with such a dark facade.  

He cared about you, your brother really cared about you, and that’s what you kept telling yourself throughout the car ride.  He was going to be there regardless of what was going to go down with everyone else who had previously mattered to you.  

When you get back home, you climb the stairs and forgo the elevator.  And with a similar energy you’d used the very first year you’d come back, emotionally battered by the guy who turned out to be your best friend, you hang your head and begin the ascent.  Though you were weighed with similar feelings, instead of climbing up slowly as you had, five years ago already, you rush it.  When you arrive, you turn on your heel and go back down.  

When you arrive to the top floor a second time, you’re out of breath and your head hurts more than ever and you’re shaky about the decision that you’ve taken.  But this was going to be your year, and you were going to turn a page.  

You still feel uneasy with your brother, but you manage to slip into your bedroom, and you find a tall glass of apple juice on your bedside table.  So you sip on it as you boot up your computer and figure that the kitchen’s shelves are probably stacked with a panoply of your favorite snacks.  And slowly, the wariness you felt of being cornered about your recent struggles fade into immense appreciation.  You enter your password mechanically, but you actually do debate running away from your monitor to instead find some comfort in your guardian.  The concept of having to walk out there however and having to express yourself vocally, at least to a minimum, gets your heart beating so hard that you resolve to confront this issue first.  

Pesterchum logs you in automatically.  All three of your friends are online, but you pay no mind to that for now, instead opening up your internet browser.  Slowly, you open tab after tab, and cautiously, you do your best to recall any trace you might have left of your online presence.  

You’re going to turn a page, and the next page would be just amazing and great and you wouldn’t look back on this as a mistake.  It’s what you tell yourself as you deactivate different blogs, your youtube channel, amongst different accounts you’ve accumulated on the web over the years.  You thank your stars that you’d never handed out your email address online, and then everything was almost settled to perfection.  Almost.  

You wipe the back of your hand over your forehead, and you are surprised to discover both the shakiness of said hand and the sweat gathering at your hairline.  Reality had done wonders of crashing into the comfiness of your virtual home.  Memories of bonding and of friendship all but assault your mind, but they’re all easily swept aside with a much fresher memory.  The pure terror that had settled onto you when finding out who your John was in the real world.  

It had all become much too real much too fast, and at this point, you didn’t know how to reconcile those two parts of you.  The one John had presumably fallen for, and the one John had rejected.  

When you open up your pesterchum window again, the colors of your friends’ handles stop you in your haste.  You could come clean to John?  You’d never know the outcome unless you went for it, you knew that.  You could manage this mess.  John had wanted to fix the mess too, but would he be so willing when the truth would come out?  

You deactivate your account.  

Your heart beats as hard as it had at the thought of seeking out your brother when you actually do open your bedroom door.  He’s probably going to be seeing more of you than usual for this summer.  You’d have to stay busy and stay away from your room to not cave into the envy of undoing most of the damage that you had probably just managed to cause.  With that thought, you turned off your phone before exiting your room, readying yourself to confront your brother about changing the number pretty soon.  For now, you approach him as if you’ll run off at any indication of actual confrontation.  

He lets you sneak up on him, but you know better than to think you had fooled him.  He’s seated on his futon, arms casually slung over the back of it, and probably paying no true mind to the movie playing.  You have the hunch that he had been staying up in case this would happen.  

“Hey,” is the only word you manage to get out.  

Your voice trembles and your heart beats even harder.  You don’t try to offer anything else.  Because all he answers you with is, “C’me here, kid.”  

You instantly move to his side, curling up against him and resting your head lightly over his lap, as you had hundreds of times when you were but a small child who would fall asleep watching any and every movie.

You fall asleep there tonight as well.  But not without silently letting your tears slide down.  He has the decency of never commenting on it, and you’re glad for that much.  But you’re not glad about the thoughts surging through your mind.  You were going to turn the page.  But you were under the impression the paper cut you’d get would slice right through your chest.  

It’s comforting to fall asleep with someone else after having done so for most of the week, with John.  With your best friend.  With someone you’d just cut out, forever, you think.  You’d have to get more stuff sorted out tomorrow, make sure you were untraceable.  

When you wake up, it’s still dark out, and you’re in your own bed.  When you bring your hands to your face, your shades are gone.  And for the first time, one thought emerges from the chaos that had been created inside of your head.  

How could those shades have been important to John Egbert?

 

 

\------------------

 

 

 

David was...  Beautiful.  Every little thing about him.  Every word that he spoke.  Every glance you could understand from behind those shades.  Every gesture he made with his hands.  Every step that he took.  Every single one of his expressions.  The way he looked when he was asleep.  The way he looked when he ran.  He radiated what called to your soul as beauty, and you wondered if anyone saw him in this same way.  

But there was something else that also called to you.  The thoughts he rarely expressed, and never quite fully, those thoughts you could try to read when they played out over his face and body.  His mind was beautiful too, and not because he was intelligent, but because there was something there, something oddly precious.  And that was it.  Within this week you’d understood that that gut feeling you’d had, that reasoning that he must be the one for you, had not been off the mark.  He was the only person for you, and your moments of weakness, of considering just letting it go, suddenly seem sour and unfounded.  

And it...  It didn’t seem entirely impossible.  If you could get him to warm up to you in the space of a week, then you could probably work wonders over time.  And you had time.  There was no where you were supposed to be right now, you hadn’t made any plans for the future, but you were starting to understand that was because you’d had to wait for him.  It had to be centered around him.  You needed him.  

They were all very intense feelings, but you couldn’t bring yourself to downplay it, not when that intensity was precisely what overtook you when you were simply near him.  You sort of had started to believe that you had it in the bag.  Even though you were parting ways for now, you couldn’t come to think of anything else but your potential success.  You felt as if you’d both been waiting for one another for five years already.  There was no problem in waiting a bit longer, was there?  

But your parting didn’t really bode well.  You’d established, last night, when he had spoken to you in a vulnerable honesty that only served to brighten his beauty, that you were going to help him in any way that you could.  Even if he couldn’t conquer his dreams, you’d find a way to bring that peace of mind that he wanted to him.  You would do it because you loved him.  And though you’re not sure how he would take to knowing just how precious you saw him to be, he remained the single most gorgeous being you could even fathom.  

He’d looked as if he’d seen a ghost when he’d left though.

You’d never, ever, seen him in such a state.  

It meant something to you, giving him access to your pesterchum account like that.  That was the place for your close friends only, and you were inviting him there because he already meant so much to you.  It had seemed perfect in your mind, and no other way of inviting him to keep contact with you had the same impact than this did.  And yet, the impact he seems hit with is totally different from the one you’d envisioned.  

He had freaked out.  You’d been thinking of kissing him before he left.  Alright, maybe just his cheek; no matter how forward you had forced yourself to be, that still seemed like a huge deal to you.  But you’d imagined some affection in that last moment together.  But he had flipped out, he hadn’t even managed to utter a goodbye before racing away.  

You couldn’t come to understand it.  You could feel his panic.  Maybe he had been panicking because this was the last time you’d meet in this place.  You had to go with that scenario because you had no other probable ones.  It still felt wrong though, and something inside you kept replaying how he had blanched upon reading your note, your contact information.  It was a mystery. 

There had been no proper goodbye.  He’d left, abruptly, and with that blanched out and livid expression.  You were worried.  But god, it could mean a million different things, and over the week you’d found out that most every time, he could annul what you’d thought you could see through him, with something more intricate and purer to who he essentially was.  It had you falling even deeper.  But this, this you were not getting an answer to.  

It takes you an entire minute to get a grip and to also dash out of the bedroom, and as you look to the left of the corridor, and to the right of it, none of the faces are David’s.  You do the only legitimately explainable thing and shout out his name.  And even as you use the staircase where you’d begun talking to him this week, you’re still shouting out randomly.  

“David, wait!”  

But all you were getting back were slightly crazed looks from other kids.  And halfway down the staircase you sigh and let go, plopping down onto a stair of your liking and glancing out the window panels of the wall.  From here you could see the main gates.  You’d see him exit.  Maybe that’s all you needed, to see him once more, it had nothing to do with talking to him one last time.  Because you were going to do that soon.  The two of you would communicate like crazy and it was going to be great and you weren’t worried that he was just going to dump your contact info away, nope.  He was a kind person.  He wouldn’t do that.  

Despite all of this, you can’t shake off the deep and troubling sense of regret of not having asked for his handle back.  Or, hell, his handle first!  You knew for a matter of fact that you were willing to seek him out, but the other way around?  Not so much.  

So you watch him from that spot in the staircase as he emerges from the front doors of the building, much too quickly, as if he’d ran a marathon to get to the exit in time.  And you silently will him to hold on to that paper for dear life, to seek you out as soon as possible, to let you get better glimpses of his thoughts through future conversations, to let you in.  Though you also will him to look up, look up just as he had the very first moment you’d seen him, and to find you with his eyes, to find you in that left wing of the building, in the windowed staircase that everyone loved because it was always flooded with light, and start making contact with you from this very moment.  

He doesn’t look up.  You don’t know where he looks, he is so far away, and his eyes are still covered, as always.  But you can feel it, from so far away, the terror that had set into his bones, unexplainably so, still pushing him to quicken his pace.  

There was no trick of the eye as you watched him leave the parameter of the campus, he didn’t look as if he was about to take flight and to set to the sky into golden hues of flames.  It was just David, scared away by something you had not seen.  And your heart clenched.  More than ever, you did not want this moment to be the very last one.  

You almost miss out on your last space camp graduation, lost in thought, concentrated on wishful thinking and on the force of willpower.  

You almost get to the auditorium in time.  You put yourself in a bunch of pictures, you smile to no end, and you get a bunch of different students and counselors to sign your red space camp shirt, and it’s all very upbeat in contrast to your personality.  But you indulge yourself and weave through the crowd of smiling faces, outdoing them all with your own simple smile.  This place could be good.  This place could just be where you’d met your husband to be, or something like that.  Obviously, you keep that to yourself, but the thought still blooms inside of your mind.  

It’s a beautiful day to be alive, you tell yourself, even as you work your way through the airport’s security.  Your plane is delayed, but nothing harms your good mood, not even the haunting image of David’s all but livid expression.  You’d accomplished a lot this week, and it’s what you needed to be accomplished for your future, you were finally getting direction, you were going to get to your goals.  You’d find a way to make every day of your life happy and hopeful, just as you had felt when you were with him.  

You were proud of yourself.  You were happy.  And when your plane finally hits the ground, and you haven’t let your eyes slip shut for a second of the trip, nor have you snacked on anything; you feel reenergized.  It’s been forever since you shared a true and long hug with your father, but today is the day to start up again.  You laugh at his surprise when you pull him into a warm embrace.  You’re just as tall as he is now, aren’t you?   You feel even more pride in yourself, even for something as silly as height.  

You’re even happier when it turns out that your father had prepared a feast.  It seemed your good action of giving him the best hug of the year was really the right energy to go with.  And as the evening grows and he sets out to prepare a dessert that will surely have you rolling around with euphoric tastebud sensations, you set yourself up in the living room with your laptop, the one you’d received at Christmas.  

Before you even open up your pesterchum, you give yourself a pep talk.  You don’t know how long of a trip home he has.  You don’t know how often he goes online.  You don’t know what he’s doing right now, but it was not necessarily a bad thing if you didn’t already have a new contact request.  You could give it time.  You’d always given this time, it would be nothing new, and it would be alright.  

You’re very thankful that you’d taken a moment to remind yourself of these things, because your window is the same old, same old.  The three handles of your friends are neatly listed off and their vibrant yet familiar colors indicate their presence.  

You’ll greet them a bit later, you’re a bit pumped with the energy of awaiting for what can only be the love of your life to reach back to you.  

There are so many updates of so many things you have the privilege of following online that have surely popped up over the course of the week, so you try to distract yourself with those, despite checking back to your chat client every two minutes or so.  

You’ll be notified when he asks you, but you still check, just in case your account messes it up.  You can’t mess this up, and you definitely will not!

You’ve finally finished up with the update of your current favorite webcomic when your chat window has changed.  It’s subtle, almost too subtle.  The three colors have gone to only a pair.  One of your friends had logged out, alright, alright...  Only, the handle had not greyed out, there were only two of them listed now.  Dave’s handle has been wiped clean off your window.  

Your first reaction is to feel sort of insulted.  You’d scheduled to have a serious talk with him some time this week, was he trying to weasel out of this now?  Truth be told, you’d been feeling very distressed over the whole Dave thing, but...  You hadn’t given it much thought at all over the week.  Maybe it was time you sort your priorities straight.  If Dave wanted to pull away, you’d just let him, right?  You had people who mattered more than he did now, right?   

Still no friend request.  You stay up too late, much after your father sets out for his bed time, and past the point where you’ve lost all energy to actually climb up the stairs to your room.  But as you advance deeper into the night and closer to the morning, your good mood is gradually being fended off by irritation.  

Nothing was wrong.  Maybe David wouldn’t log on today, that was fine, you should just set out to bed, and maybe when you wake up, he’ll be there.  You get the impression that you’d be a lot more comfortable with this attitude had it not been for Dave.  What the fuck was he playing at?  Did he delete you as a friend?  What was up with that?  Oh well, he better not crawl back to you any time soon, because you’re not so sure how sympathetic you’ll be feeling.  

He’s not the only one getting under your skin though, both of your girl friends haven’t contacted you yet, and yet...  They were still awake as well?  This wasn’t really in your habits to aim to pulling all nighters.  

It doesn’t take too long for things to change drastically.  

GG: john, are you talking to dave right now?

It’s the first message to pop up, and you almost don’t have the decency to hide how aggravating it is to have your friend overlook your welcome home.  

EB: i had a great week, thanks for asking!   
GG: sorry, ugh, welcome home and all that but   
GG: were really worried over here   
GG: has dave told you anything   
EB: what are you on about?   
GG: i dont know god, im sorry john   
GG: its just   
GG: hes gone??   
GG: cant find him anywhere

It’s hard to understand the full meaning of her words.  Can’t find him anywhere over the web, that seemed a bit ridiculous.  And, what, it had only been a few hours since he’d gone missing from your list, a few hours was no big deal.  

But you somehow understand the deleted accounts without having to check on them.  And you understand that dialing his number is going to be useless, even as you do it.  

You replay recent thoughts, and you shake at the idea of getting your priorities straight.  

Had you really...  

You feel sick as you forgo the suddenly very insistent incoming messages, from both the friends you have left.  You feel sick because even though you hadn’t needed the confirmation, you quickly exhaust the sources from which you could have found Dave as well.  Dave.  Shit, this couldn’t be happening.   

You have to resign yourself to logging off when the clock points out your father shall be getting up soon and you didn’t really want to have to explain your breathless and panicked state.  

Jade’s last words are small consolation.

GG: rose knows where hes going for college so she said she might be able to hunt him down when the time comes but   
GG: god, i dont understand why this is happening :(  

There is no downplaying the hurt that you feel at the realization that you’d already fallen out of Dave’s life, not even aware of where his life was heading outside of high school.  You’d been a shit friend, and somehow, you could feel that this shittiness had been the factor to your only other friends also losing what could only be the greatest guy you had ever met.  

In the next days, David kind of slips off the radar.  And a few days later, when you are still silently and shakily trying to make peace with the disappearance, you have to face that you wouldn’t be getting any replacement for your childhood friend.  No new friend requests had come in.

Your loneliness has never seen these levels before.  

 

 

\------------------

 

You’d never really thought of how strong you might be.  Whenever you were pulled into those reflexions; you settled with: I hope to one day realize I have grown into a strong person.  That’s all there was to it.  There was no true test of strength in your life, only the hope that the revelation would come one day.

Ditching your friends had at first presented itself as that dreaded test of strength.  For much of that summer and well into your first year of university, you were facing quite the harsh battle.  The more days away from them you accumulated though, and the more the simple steps of reactivating an account of yours, any of them really, showed itself as what it truly was.  

A few minutes to undo the torture you’d dragged yourself through for days and days and days.  

It hadn’t been easy, it had been a struggle.  Any and every little thing easily messed with your willpower to stay away.  You started envisioning your friends as simple habits you’d gotten too deep into with the years.  You just had to quit.  It was something like quitting smoking, probably.  But still, people managed to do that.  And so could you.  You were better than this.  Better than this temptation to cave in and to soothe all of your problems and worries with the presence of your friends.  

You were stronger than that, you could overcome your problems and worries all by yourself, thank you very much.  

But on gloomy and dreary days, whenever you’d stump yourself with the question of just why you needed to do this; the mirage was easily dissipated.  This was no test of strength.  This was a show of cowardice.  You’d run away, and you were cowering with the fear of not being able to run very far at all.  

You loved your friends.  You’d always loved your friends.  They made so many things worth it.  

You tried not to think too much of it.  

Your life became extraordinarily ordinary.  Thankfully, school was time-consuming.  Excessively time-consuming.  And you had to hand it to yourself that you’d never before worked as hard.  Clearing up your friendships might have been a smart move to that extent, sacrificing social life for academic success wasn’t so criminal.  But you know there was nothing as honorable as a sacrifice here.  

You still felt called to updating them, to seeking them out.  You didn’t.  Even though, more than once, you had to resist the urge to take a trip to NYC and to find Rose.  Find Rose and let her comfort you for as long as it took.  You were impartial when Rose had tried to convince you in the past, but mostly because you already knew that it was the solid truth.  That she’d always been the most motherly presence in your life.  And god, maybe you needed that right now.  

Maybe you also needed your best friends.  

So you ignored it.  And your brother seemed overjoyed that your brotherly bond only grew with the distance between you.  You’re not so sure he would be overtaken with joy if he came to understand that he had skyrocketed and secured his place as the most important character of your life only because you’d eliminated the others.  The distance helps keep the secret.  And whenever he points out your lack of internet usage over the holidays, you tell him you simply cleared up your schedule to trade your vacation time for brother time.  

You’re not really sure that he truly has no idea of what is going on.  It had taken him a grand total of two days that summer after you’d graduated to figure out that your blogs had disappeared.  

He’d never really seemed to take the bait that you had to consecrate yourself fully to university if you wanted to rank well and to keep your scholarships and all that hoopla.  

The plus side of things...  The plus side was that severing your lifelong friendships was an a lot harsher blow than simply leaving home.  And so moving out became...  A lot more manageable.  Gigantically more manageable.  It would have been like complaining about a bruised knee whilst pulling through a severe head wound.  So, problem solved, sort of.  

Living away from home was actually great.  You’d always imagined your apartment, so high up above the city, to be just about the coolest place on Earth.  You were completely convinced of it.  But, your spectacularly bland and normal dorm room gave you; you couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but gave you something else.  Room to breathe?  Room to actually see who you were without all of your brother’s shenanigans?  You dearly loved your brother, but moving out of his place had made you feel more like yourself than you had ever felt.  Sure, some days were tougher, and sometimes you couldn’t quite say that you wanted to see yourself so clearly, that you were a despicable person and you’d really rather be in the shadows of a genuinely great man.  On most days, it gave you the space you needed to breathe in and to breathe out.  

Life became simple.  The months started bleeding into one another, and the next thing you know you were packing up your dorm room, bidding farewell to your yearlong roommate.  He’d been pretty alright, he kept to himself a lot, which you liked, but when he would get into study mode he’d blast truly weird music.  You’d never really hit it off, but you weren’t really hitting it off with anyone at all.  

The next thing you know, you were entering the second year of university, and it was the anniversary of you cutting contact with your friends, and sometimes you fantasized of Rose coming to your university and dragging you out of there for good.  You didn’t really know her face though.  And when you tried to imagine the one friend whose face you knew, you really only managed to imagine him punching your lights out.

But you’d replied to some ad on craigslist and had managed to land yourself a place downtown (as downtown as it got) with two other students.  It was nice because the city life was familiar.  It was also nice because those two had nothing to do with the work that entirely consumed your life at school as well as outside of it.  It was less nice because there was always people over and it was loud and you’d never before appreciated how out of his way your brother would go to make you comfortable at home.  

You liked to stay in your room, and you liked to lock it.  

This year you’d gotten a much smaller apartment and it was just for you and you would almost use the term ‘in love‘ for how amazing you felt living all by yourself here.  Everything became much easier, and you’d decided with yourself, as spring came along and you were able to renew your rental of the place, that this would be the place you’d be living in when you graduate next year.  

Everything became much easier, but one thing.  And where time was supposed to make your resolve stronger, lately it was pretty shaken up.  You liked to check their online profiles a lot, your lost friends.  The frequency at which you did so dramatically increased in past months though and living all by yourself has really unleashed your need for friendship.  It was hard to find out much from what you could gather of their public information online.  They seemed happy though.  Despite having grown apart.  You could tell as much.  And it tore you up inside a little bit.   

Ultimately, you did not succeed in staying away from them thanks to some impressive and innate strength.  It was the fear, the pure fear of being cleanly rejected were you to go back to them.  Who were you kidding, you’d never be able to rekindle that friendship, not after having left for three solid years.  The last you’d heard of them you were all kids starting out as adults.  Now you were more firmly young adults and it gave you reason enough to keep to yourself.  

It’s the start of finals when everything comes undone.  

In your dorm, in your shared apartment last year, and even this year, you kept a large bag of sunflower seeds in your kitchen.  

Your crows had abandoned you as soon as you’d left for college.  Some part of your mind wondered if they’d finally passed, but you didn’t give that theory much attention.  But you waited, no matter where you lived, for a black feathered bird to come back.  

And it’s that day, with all of your study material spread out on your bedroom floor, that you catch flight in the corner of your eye.  It’s similar to that fleeting motion of color that always told you it was time to hang out with your crows back at home.  It’s different though, and instead of immediately setting out for the kitchen, you sneak up to your window instead, right above your work desk which mostly went unused.  (You thought better when on the floor, you swear!)  

Your window had already been cracked open with the upcoming summer heat, but...  But it was no crow.  

It was a tiny yellow bird.  Chirping, bouncing around, happy for no reason and stopping at your window for no reason.  

It was a tiny yellow bird.  And you suddenly felt just as tiny as him, but not quite anything else like him.  

You sort of doubt he’ll stay there while you go get the seeds, but he does so regardless.  And when you slip a few seeds outside of your window, he simply ignores them.  

You sit atop of your desk and watch him for a long time.  He seems to watch you back.

You thought of John.  John saw you as some yellow bird.  He really had loved you, hadn’t he?  And you’d panicked so badly.  

“This is so unfair,” you groan out as the bird refuses to leave.  

It’s hard to see through your tears, but you make it back to your laptop without breaking a limb.  

It’s harder to get through the next few steps.  It’s hard to find a new chumhandle.  You don’t want anything to give you away.  You forgo the initials TG to go with TT instead, hiding behind both Rose and Bro’s respective handles from back in the day.  You go with  temporalTheorist , and you hide with your big brother’s color as well.  

When you send him the friend request, you withdraw into your brother’s typing style as well, and smile secretly at how warmly comforting it is to go back to imitating your sibling.  

Your message reads;

TT: Maybe you don’t remember me, but you gave me your chumhandle a few years ago.  I’m David, from space camp?  Sorry for the wait.  

There’s no reason for him to answer right away, but for some reason, you can’t look away.  You grab your shades from your bedside table and squeeze them for dear life as you keep watching.  

You were going to...  Get John back in your life.  And never mention your dual identity.  You’d set things right, even if that included you handing these shades over to him.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who is reading and giving me feedback! <3


	14. Weighed Reunions

EB: this time i’m serious.  if i don’t leave like right, right, right now, i am just going to have an empty fridge.

TT: I’m telling you, you’re downtown Seattle, there are so many places you can order takeout from at this time.   
EB: maybe, but i want some goddamned veggies in my fridge.  is that so hard to ask for, david?  
TT:  I’d say pretty hard, seeing as you’re not going.  
EB: you won’t let me go!  
TT: I ain’t doing shit!  You’re the one sticking around.  
EB: i’m going now.  
TT: Fine by me, go fulfill your undying need for the grocery store.

You then compete to a stare down against your monitor.  You’re pretty damned sure you lose.  The next ping from your speakers sounds almost shy and the fond smile that draws up your lips won’t leave no matter how harshly you want to chastise yourself.  

TT: John?  I love you?

Wasn’t that cute?  He didn’t want you to leave without you telling him that you loved him?  You try not to tell yourself just how precious that is, but here again you fail miserably.  Against your better judgement you do not move to get your wallet, or your keys, or your shoes, or your jacket, and not even your grocery bag.  You were going to stay here at the computer.  Maybe you’d always have time to stock up the apartment while he was in the plane?

EB: whatever look is on your face right now, stop making it.  
EB: i love you and it looks like there’s no way i’m going to get there before closing hour.  
TT: Aw yeah!   
EB: don’t sound so happy, mister.  how do you think i’m going to feed you when you get here tomorrow?    
TT: Probably bird food...     
EB: oh my god, i hate you so much.  
TT: You love me!

You really do though, he’s right.  He’s been online a lot more often lately, what with his workload from school lightening up before the break.  Alright, maybe you shouldn’t be putting the entire fault on him...  To be fair, you have been experiencing some seriously difficulty when it came to ending your conversations, and you can only explain it with the excitement you’re battling.  The fact that he’s boarding a flight tomorrow to get here is honestly keeping you from doing anything productive whatsoever.  

So you sink into your chair, and prop your feet up onto the desk.  You were going to have to switch to your laptop pretty soon.  Every night that you would bring your laptop to your bed and fall asleep chatting with him, you would tell yourself that you wouldn’t repeat it again, and yet...  Not that it mattered because come tomorrow he’d be nearby when you would fall asleep.  You didn’t really go over sleeping arrangements, but he was more than welcome to take up your couch and if he did you were going to make sure to transform it into a veritable comfy nest.  

You’d honestly rather he take up the spot next to you in your bed.  For the sole reason that now you’re used to falling asleep accompanied by his conversation; well, maybe.  If that were the case, you could probably improvise some second makeshift bed in your bedroom.  But, come on, the two of you had shared a bed before.  Those had been the best nights, hadn’t they?  Then again, you’d both been a little bit younger, and in a room with others, and it wasn’t really as if there had been any definite overtones of romantic inclinations in your relationship.  And now, well, now you wouldn’t call it definite either, but he certainly didn’t ever seem to dismiss the idea.  

He complains when you tell him you’re making the switch to your laptop and he goes off on a tangent about your refusal to get a smartphone and how much easier it was to fall asleep talking if only you would be on a handheld device.  You let him elaborate as a nice, convenient excuse to go do your switch.  So you pull the stool away from the keyboard in your room and rest your laptop atop it, yawning peacefully as the screen lit up and you fought with your clothes to get into appropriate sleepwear.  

The piano you had in the living space of your apartment just happened to be the greatest of beauties you’d ever seen, and getting to fund a baby grand had seriously plunged into your abandoned college fund and current earnings to boot.  But the keyboard in your room had always been a lifesaver.  At first when you’d just moved into the city, unsure of just about everything, and more than a little bit lost.  And even now, when it was just a step away when you awoke in the middle of night with musical ideas you had to restrain almost violently as to keep them from escaping your mind.  

You finally were able to slip under the covers, and smiled fondly as you were able to return to your chat window, only to find him still typing.  Tomorrow, you could watch his lips move when he talked away instead.  Not that he talked away nearly as often as he typed away, but you can’t decide if that is a difference between online persona and physical presence rather than a difference that came with time.  

You still have a hard time believing your luck.  Some days, you expect to come home from work or whatever, and find his chumhandle gone.  

You realize it has a lot more to do with you ex best friend than it does him.  David had never really been that person who was constantly and undeniably present, but he was that person you were sure to find again, regardless of circumstances.  And your last few years of waiting had proved that much right.  So if he disappears from your life now, it won’t be as if it were a repeat or anything.  Because in the past you’d only always just fleetingly found one another, and this time, not even a year ago, it was as if it was the first time you’d found each other and had held on.  

If he vanishes, that’ll just be a repeat of your last best friend.  

When David had come back into your life, you hadn’t been waiting for him anymore, or, not that you had realized.  You weren’t expecting for him to return.  You were still expecting Dave.  Even after slowly extracting yourself from your two other important online relationships, you just figured...  He’d show up in your life again.  You figured, maybe he’d magically become the next internet sensation, and then you could track him down.  Or maybe...  Whenever you’d get unidentified phone numbers calling you, you held the brief hope that it might have been Dave calling.  More often than not, it was a telemarketer.  But most of all, you did imagine him showing up at your doorstep.  

As if, now that you’d sorted your life all out, and that you were happy and had everything you could possibly ask for, he’d slip back into the decor.  He did not.  

And it had been David who’d sent you a friend request, on an unexplainably sunny day and who’d somehow shaken you out of these thoughts.  Three years without your best friend; it was a long time coming.  It was unbelievable, it was great.  And after all of it, you had someone to show your sorted out life to.  

David would always rave about how you’d just about become the coolest person, and you always had to pull the humility card out on that one.  Yeah, you loved your job, and you thought it was as cool as everyone said it was.  And you loved that when you got home you had plenty of time to compose, and that more and more people were commissioning you for that, even though that wasn’t even what you did for a living.  And you loved your place.  But most of all, now you loved having him to talk to.

And you talked to him incessantly whenever you’d get the chance.  You weren’t hesitant to admit that he’d just caught you at a good time, and had he turned up over a year earlier than he had, he would have seen you fumbling around and desperately trying to right things.  Though, yeah, you’d managed to do it, and maybe that’s what had unlocked the universe to orchestrate your meeting.

Your eyelids are weighing heavily now, but the idea of picking him up at the airport keeps inflating your chest in a dizzying way that enables you to stay awake through it.  

The last thing that he types is:

TT: might fall asleep soon

You lay your head onto the pillow, but you keep facing the laptop and make no move to shut it down, just in case he wakes up again, though that might be futile because sleep carries you away easily as well.  

You like it when his perfect typing slips.  Not that the perfection of it had ever surprised you, but...  There was a sense of satisfaction that you got out of making him laugh so hard that he’ll drop all punctuation, or when you get him relaxed enough, or sleepy enough, as if it broke an extra barrier between the two of you.  

You miss him in a way that it is hard to describe sometimes.  

Maybe, you’d never really believed that he was out of your life, but you hadn’t known when you would find him again.  Having him return to you like that was, almost indescribable.  It hadn’t been a year, not yet, but in the space of those months, you’d constructed what you could only think of as a very long lasting friendship, as if it had already been a lot longer than it all really had been so far.  But maybe that was the case anyway, how long ago had it been when you’d first called him out?  Almost a decade, something like that.  

He had been the one to suggest coming to see you.  He was taking up his March break to come hang out with you instead of going home, and you still remembered how he’d loved his home.  He must have been a godsend, some sort of sign from the universe that you had done well, after the colossal hurt you’d pulled yourself through these past years, you were getting to see that it was all worth it, that there had been a reason to push past it.  

Tomorrow comes quicker than expected.  You never do go to the grocery store.  David is particularly adamant about you not leaving his side, and when he leaves his computer to go shower, he makes you promise to just shower as well and then immediately get back to him, and when he puts the final touches to his packing, he makes you promise to wait for him.  And so you end up chatting with him until he boards his plane, really; you are absolutely positive he only shut his phone off when the announcement was made to do so aboard the plane.  

It’s a Sunday and oh god you just wish you could go to work.  You could probably break in, you know you could, that’s what you’re planning to do tomorrow morning with David.  You’d taken care to make most of your shifts disappear from the week, but you still had to show up a handful of times according to your final schedule.  But right now, you could do with tiring the restlessness out of your bones.  

So you settle for the second best and drive to the airport much too early, and that’s no wonder because you drive way too far above the speed limit.  It’s a small rush compared to what you’re used to.  

You find out that you don’t need an extra rush when you wind up seated near the baggage claim, staring quite too intensely at the illuminated board of arrivals.  You don’t need an extra rush because you can almost feel the blood inside of your veins vibrating, and suddenly your phone is much too heavy for your pocket and you’re just waiting for it to start vibrating too, you’re doing your best to will David to text you.  

It’s an eternity before the letters of On Time turn into Landed.  The infinity following that one is shorter but somehow lasts a lifetime longer. 

You’d jumped up much before he’d come into view.  Maybe it was to keep your leg from bouncing, but even as you stood your legs felt unsteadier than you’d experienced, possibly ever.  And when he did come into view you did the impeccable switch to scared and panicked.  You should have bought flowers, right?  No.  That would have been like buying flowers for yourself, because he was staying at your place.  But you should have bought something else, right?  You should have worn something else.  You like what he’s wearing.  You like his smile.  He looks happy.  You should look happier.  Do you look happy enough?

And oh god, he was already here.  And he is hugging you, and it is possibly the best hug of your entire life.  He’s wearing his backpack over both of his shoulders, you notice straight away, and it hits you with an important dose of reassurance.  His arms feel too long because you’ve never felt so encased, but you do wish he’d pull back so you could watch that smile again.  He looks a lot more grown up.  Though his choice of clothes is still too loose for his frame.  The bridge of his nose is more freckled than it had ever been in the summer, as if he’d spent a lot of time outside despite the winter time he always complained about, but his shades still remained atop his still upturned and stupidly pretty nose.  

When he pulls back you feel dazed.  Equally happy though, especially when you can breathe out your panic and let your eyes tighten up with too high levels of adoration.  You think his cheeks look a bit plumper and you have to seriously fight with the urge to rest your hands atop them.  He smiles again, more hesitant and more controlled this time, and slides what you can now see are slightly shaking fingers through his still phenomenally pale hair.  The touch leaves it sticking up and this time you don’t really find that time to keep yourself from brushing your fingers to imitate his path and smoothing his hair back into place.  

You never pull back because he speaks up and you are utterly frozen with the unfamiliarity of his voice.  

All he says is, “I missed you.”  

The serious tones almost come off as glacial, but it doesn’t sting or anything of the sort.  You’re reminded of how familiar and welcoming you’d always found him to be, no matter the age you were both at whenever you’d meet.  It doesn’t feel as if you recognize his voice to be, well, his.  It’s different.  

It’s different, but something inside of you responds to it all the same, and your hand stays in place, over the back of his head, when you lean your forehead to press against his.  You note the true difference then, when you’re close enough to draw the lines of his eyes without the removal of his aviators.  He was watching you unlike how he’d ever done it before.  

Entire months of telling him you loved him at the end of the day and having him return it like clockwork dawn to you as nothing of artificial, but purely real.  If anyone would have had to ask you if you were really sure about this person loving you, you would have been hesitant to give the answer you truly wanted to.  

However, right now, here, with this minimal contact between you, but also this minimal space, he’s looking at you as if he absolutely adores you, as if he’d always absolutely adored you.  

Your hand is starting to feel heavy so you let it fall away.  He’s the one who finds your hands with his.  He’s the one who holds onto your hands with that still ever slight tremble, as if this meant the world to him as well.  It’s again that feeling of disbelief; how can it be that it turned out to be this?  How can it be that he loved you?  

You shut your eyes and it no longer feels stupid for you to have shown up without flowers or chocolates or serenades.  

“Welcome home,” you breathe out.  Unplanned words.  

He exhales and your lips quirk up when that air hits them.  It was probably pretentious to claim that you were his home, or anything of the sort.  It was probably pretentious, yes, but was it really still so unrealistic to imagine that your feelings were on the same level?  If you were on the same page, then this was already the most at home you could think of.  

When your eyes flutter back open, you note that he’d imitated you and had shut his own.  His face is so relaxed that you could easily map out all of his features and angles.  Your eyebrows furrow in retaliation and the bite of your teeth over your lip is not enough to keep your following words away.  

“Cannot believe it took so long for you to come back.”   

He swallows in a way that is impossible to ignore.  When he looks at you again it’s with a fear you cannot calculate or reason.  So you snort and draw your head a bit back to bonk your forehead against his lightly.  His nose wrinkles when you smile; that looks new.  You snort again because it makes him look younger than the adults you’ve both grown up to be.  

It takes too long for you to get moving.  It’s probably because you spend so much time biting back your words.  Don’t start rambling about his beauty.  Don’t cup his cheeks like you really want to.  Don’t kiss his smiling lips.  Don’t burst into tears.  Don’t start calling him your angel.  Don’t tell him that he saved you from a relatively empty life.  An enjoyable lifestyle, granted, but devoid of the support and the love you’d desperately needed.  

He was finally here, and all you did as you repressed those things, was swing your hands back and forth with his and occasionally let your nose brush against his as you smiled at one another until you felt silly.  

When you lead him to your car, you can tell he’s nervous by the way that he fiddles with the straps of his backpack.  You want to ask him why he had decided to wear it in such a formal fashion, but you never let that out either.  So you just go ahead and grab his hand to stop him from freaking out too badly.  When you do, he walks closer to you and presses his shoulder to yours.  You couldn’t remember him to be so affectionate.  You couldn’t remember him talking with that voice, or him watching you with those eyes, or his obvious preference to contact; and somehow it felt incredibly reminiscent of something.  

You were probably meant for one another, so it was useless to ask yourself too many questions.  That was reason enough to let it go.  As you often let things go with David.  There were so many unknowns about him, so much information that he kept to himself alone.  You were alright with that.  He was slow to open up, but you loved him enough to already love those parts that were still obscured away.  Meant to be; so why worry?  

He looks worried though as you drive off.  But whenever you stop at the red lights, you brush your hand over his knee, and he leans completely to the side so that he can knock the side of his head against yours.  He looks worried, but he still smiles and points things out and sings along to the car’s music.  You’d compiled a playlist of songs you’d both shared with one another over the time you’d spent online together.  It was hard to tell if you had picked out his favorites, but that was really what you were aiming for.  

You drive around the city completely pointlessly, a lot slower than you had earlier when you’d made your way to the airport.  You tried to show him all the spots you went to, everything that was part of your everyday life, everything that you would be able to explore with him over the week he’d be with you.  You have no idea if this is to postpone the return to your apartment; you hadn’t technically planned out this drive until it was actually happening.

You’re more likely to believe it is because you like the atmosphere he’d helped create.  The slow and low hum of his voice, the way his arms dangled almost awkwardly over his knees, the lighting of the setting sun, and the activity of the city.

It’s considerably dark out when pull your car into your usual spot, next to the park, a block or so away from where you lived.  Parking privileges were a hard thing to handle in the real world, you always thought to yourself, but by now you knew enough of the holes in the system to rope your charmingly low-key car into more than legal spots.  He doesn’t complain about the walk.  Not at all, in fact, and you almost notice a skip in his steps, obviously quickly warming up and settling his nerves to the new situation.  

To compensate you stop at the bakery at the corner of your street, the one you go to every Tuesday and Friday morning.  You still don’t know if you are trying to postpone his final arrival into your everyday life refuge.  You think it has more to do with trying to imprint David into every single place you go to. 

You see him eying the apple turnovers, so you order two of those, and he seems utterly shocked that you’d caught him.  It makes you laugh because you don’t understand what was so criminal about making it clear which pastry he preferred.  You also laugh when you get to tell him that you hadn’t been able to stock up your fridge with veggies.  

He takes a hold of your hand as you exit the shop and says: “We’ll just have to go through the grocery list together then, yeah?”  

Now you know it must be that you want his presence to be known by every aspect of your life because the image of him strolling through the aisles of your usual grocery store excited you beyond what is acceptable.  

You apologize to him when he refuses to take the elevator, telling him you were unfortunately the last floor up and that he might want to reconsider his decision, despite what was surely a traumatic event between the two of you involving a similar setting a few years back.  He laughs as he climbs up the stairs anyway, mumbling something about being used to a lot worse.  You wonder what his place must look like.  You’d never ever video chatted, but...  After seeing him for an entire week, that was probably going to be a problem.  You were probably going to want to see him, always.  You weren’t there yet.  There was still so much to do, so much you had planned.  

First impressions are hard though.  So you hold your breath and fail to unlock the door twice before managing.  He averts his eyes as if it would be too embarrassing to you if he were to look directly at your fumbling; you think he might be incredibly right.  

The air in your lungs feels intoxicating when you manage to push the door open and maintain your weight against it as to let him step into your home.  

He does exactly as you would have imagined, he goes for the wall of your apartment, the one with the city view and the large glass panels.  

“Just like the cafeteria, back in the day?”

He doesn’t answer though, he’s flittered over to your piano, his fingers dancing over every different texture and over your handwritten notes resting over the bench.  

There’s a lot more to see, like your excessive collections of video games and films, or the spotless kitchen, or that ‘L’ shaped couch that you loved dearly.  But he gravitated towards the view and the music, just as you had predicted and envisioned in your head a million times.  You weren’t afraid of his possible unfamiliarity anymore.  

And when he turns to you and his shoulders drop and you have the faintest notion that his entire guard and act drops too, you can finally flush the air out of your tortured lungs. 

“You’re just the coolest person ever.”  

He’s typed that a lot already, but hearing the vocal confirmation is an infinitely great gift.  

“I keep telling you, you just came back at a good time.”  

His shoulders rise up a bit and you are starting to be able to silhouette what seems to be a heavy guilt inside of him, at the thought of deserting you.  You think it’s stupid and completely unrelated, but you aren’t about to point it out.  

The question of where he is going to sleep never comes up.  He takes the bathroom first, and takes a bath.  The bathtub is rarely used but having him make use of it brings you a certain glee that you can’t really decipher.  By the time you’re out of your shower, you find him resting peacefully in your bed, so you guess that’s one problem solved.  Really, there shouldn’t have been a problem with you sharing a bed, it wasn’t like at camp, this one was big enough to have the two of you completely separated.  

You guess that he’s asleep when you get there, that he must have fallen asleep by accident because his shades are atop his head and not folded over the pillow.  So you don't really indulge in your day’s strength to withhold and instead press a kiss to his cheek when you climb into bed.  You see it right away when you pull back; that he isn’t really sleeping, because his face is twisting slightly and you can make out the obvious effort and stress he is putting into his features as to not react.  

“Dave, come on, you should be asleep.  I’m waking you up early to take you to work, remember?” 

The stress is dissipated immediately, but you think it might have simply transferred to your own expression instead.  

That had been the first time since he’d come back into your life that you’d called him the wrong name.  The timing could not have been worst.  

You position yourself into your bed, smiling slightly at the thought of being turned towards this side, instead of away and towards the keyboard stool.  Because David is here.  The smile must not light up your entire face because calling him the wrong name is a lot more painful now that there is no one else to call Dave at all.

He doesn’t answer you, but it’s easy to tell why.  He’s watching you with worried and questioning eyes and for once you want to be the one able to keep some private information.  He’d heard your stories of broken friendships every which way and he’d promised a few times not to let anything like that happen.  You don’t push him to make those promises because you know they’ll be meaningless to you.  He knows everything that he could possibly know, but it’s not a good time to bring it up.  You want to go back to your world just being David, not the world being people who’d left, unexplainably.  

“I love you, John.”  

You feel horrible when you only nod back but you don’t see how you could possibly form words properly.  

He finally slips his shades away from his hair and you exhale in response.  He folds them up but keeps them  in between his hands protectively.  You’re about to offer him a third pillow or something, because his hold looks off and positively wrong, but he beats you with his own actions and words.  He pushes the shades towards you, against your chest.

“I want you to have them.”  

His voice sounds out in the same way it had in the airport.  You feel nervous.  

“What?”

“These?  You always wanted them, right?  You said they were really important so I want you to have them.” 

His push is surprisingly strong and you wiggle against it not to topple off the bed.  

“What?”  You hiss back again, almost taken aback by the offer.  

“I want you to have them!”  

The tone is urgent now, so you wrap your hands over his and let him  know with a gentler push than he’d used that you weren’t going to take them away.  

“They’re not important to me anymore, I’m sorry.”  

You were getting deeper into these feelings than you’d ever thought you would go today.  You weren’t supposed to go there, especially not with David around.  He was your angelic presence, there to keep at bay these always staggering feelings you tried to dodge.  You didn’t want to consider how different your best friendship could have been had you successfully gotten those shades to their destination.  You do not want to think of how it hadn’t worked out.  You didn’t want to think of Dave, not now, not ever.  

You didn’t want to think about it, especially not when the tears were already starting to gather up.  

“They’re important in the sense that they are yours, Dave, but I can’t use those anymore.”  

Wrong fucking name.  

You have the presence of mind to wrap an arm over your eyes before you have time to flash your tears.  

“Fucking sorry, not Dave, I know it’s not, sorry.”  

He wraps his arms around you as if you’d told him what your ex best friend’s name had been in the past, even though you’d never.  But maybe it was obvious enough for him to read the cues.  He has no idea though.  He has no idea that this is probably all your fault deep down and that he’d landed the absolute  worst person to get close to.  

The contrast of this self-loathing to the love and attention he gives you as he rocks you is dizzying.  It’s enough to have you fall asleep.  

No one says a word about all that on the following morning.  That’s really good because you’d really like to set that completely aside; you don’t want to start out the week as a recklessly emotional hurricane.  So you start out the day acting like you’re on top of everything, like you’ve got it all covered, and you realize maybe that’s always your default setting.  

It’s not as if you make a lasting impression, you think.  Not when David is stumbling just to take a seat on the couch next to you, or chewing his cereals much too slowly, as if he’d forgotten just how to chew properly.  

The first thing he’s able to string together is; “Do you really wake up this early every single morning?”  Then the idea that he finds mornings absolutely repulsive finally solidifies.  

So you take advantage of that and sneak in touches here and there.  Ruffling his hair, slinging your arm over his shoulders, scooting him closer to you on the couch when you establish that he’d really slipped into rag-doll mode.  But he almost skips ahead of you when you exit the apartment, glancing over your shoulder as you lock the door to catch sight of him hopping down the stairs, eyes still downcast it looked like, and hands deep into his jacket’s pockets, but energy also obviously spiking up.  

It’s only when he lands two footed off the last stair and turns to you with an excited expression that you decide he was able to wake up properly.  You smile back at him and it launches him off into rambling as he was the one to lead you to your car, already having memorized details from your everyday life it felt like.  

“I can’t believe you get paid for what you do.”  

“Hey!  I’ll have you know that it wasn’t easy to get this job.”  

“I can’t believe you got it then!”  

You take care to only unlock the driver’s side of your car to see him struggle momentarily with his own door.  You laugh when he shoots you an offended look and slip into your car before he has the time to try to get in again.  

“This job and I were meant to be,” you explain to him when he gets settled down, his hand moving unabashedly to up the heating of the car.  

“You sure base a lot of your life off the thought that things are meant to be, you know that?”

You certainly do not.  That is quite contrary to the person you are.  You fail to know how to explain or to even defend that, so you don’t actually try to convey it at all, instead drumming your fingers over the steering wheel as you drive off.  

You smile when he kicks his feet up onto the dashboard.  He is looking outside through the window, but you still manage to catch his mumbled words.  You feel a surge of affection at the path of his eyes alone.  

“Like, it’s not ok that when people ask you what you did at work for the day, you can be like...  Oh, you know, skydiving, like every other day.”  

“Someone sounds a little jealous.”  

Your smile grows and he just  keeps staring out the window; feeling worlds away from you and somehow never so close to you.  

“Not even a little bit.  I mean, it’s just like a bad and cheap imitation of the real thing.  Indoor skydiving, yeah, like there is anything cool about vertical wind tunnels.” 

“Is that so?  Then maybe I shouldn’t give you a lesson today?”  

That catches his attention, you can see him looking your way from the corner of your eye, and what had been a waning smile on your face took full bloom once again.  

“Nah uh, I’m paying for a private lesson, with love, remember?”  

You roll your eyes, but he also puts a hand over your knee and suddenly it’s a bit less easy to be playful and it’s a lot easier to succumb to the idea that you finally had David here with you and that you could win him over in any way that you saw fit; which was the plan for today.  

“It’s not like I tried to get this job with you on mind, you know?”  

You don’t know if it sounds like a joke or if it sounds like a weird confession.  But you know he already knows.  The way his thumb rubs over your knee settles the question anyway.  Nothing was stopping you now though, you were going to do this with David and he could finally get that dose of weightlessness and it was going to be the best thing you’d done.  And then, maybe, after that, you could go in alone and do backflips and tricks and totally impress the living daylights out of him.  Maybe.  

You make a show of telling him you had a reserved parking spot and he complains that you’ve worked here forever and you weren’t allowed to be proud of stupid details like those, but you still are.  And when you point out the building you tell him excitedly that the building is red, he gets this weird facial expression and lets you know that he can already see that with his own eyes.  

His own eyes are just about that shade of red, which makes your workplace just that much better.  Of course, the red also has some pretty crappy connotations you’d say, but there’s no reason to swirl that red into different combinations of letters and words.  What’s in the past is in the past.  

His day’s very first question finally comes to play when he watches you pull out the bunch of keys to the place.  

“Dude.  It’s not open yet.  Oh my god, are we sneaking in there?  I’m not doing that!”  He whispers it to you and it’s incredibly comical given the deserted state of the street.  

“Come on Dave, it won’t be romantic if there’s a bunch of other people around!”  

He replies to you with cutting precision before you have the chance to backtrack on the name.  “This isn’t a date, you’re showing me where you work.”  

“It’s a date and it’s romantic, and you can just shut up David!”  

There, that could cover up the mistake.  Right name, bingo.  But he starts clinging to your arm as you punch in the security code and you can almost feel his whining need to stay out of trouble.  

You willingly take this chance to act like the hero.  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe.”  

Though that only makes him hiss his next exhale of breath.  You don’t mind, his body is warm against your side, and you idly wonder if he got all close like this in a fear of rule breaking, or in response to the cold weather he doesn’t exactly adore.  

You don’t unlock the doors with the most ease in the world and you try not to worry about his loss of trust.  So you beckon him to get in as quickly as possible, and as soon as you’ve locked the doors behind you, you sigh a breath of relief, despite the darkness.  

“We so shouldn’t be here, all the lights are out and everything.”  

“I thought for sure you’d have a flashlight or something, oh man, what a bummer, what are you going to do now?”  

You laugh a little bit too loud at your own joking tone when you leave him near the doors and take a few steps towards the panel control of lights.  You only turn on the strict minimum, but it’s enough to have his head turning right and left in badly covered awe.  You think he is going to have a blast because this is just the lobby area and if he’s already eying everything up, you can’t see how this could turn out to be a disaster.  

He complains a lot when you get him to the dressing room though.  And you have to chastise him more than once.  “You should love flying suits, Dave, don’t be such a big baby!”  He makes such a pitifully adorable face that you don’t even have the heart to acknowledge you were still butchering his name.  

To make up for it you get him the goggles that could be worn over glasses, and let him keep his aviators.  You can’t help but to kiss his forehead when you help him to put his helmet on.  The idea of how mussed his hair will be when you remove the helmet later has you smiling brilliantly.  

He tells you you look really stupid, and you tell him he’ll look even stupider one day in an astronaut suit, and that has him stammering and flushing, and in your case makes you incredibly happy to know someone like him in such a personal way.  

You were right, when you get upstairs, he practically leaps towards the wind tunnel.  Of course, he follows up with leaping back towards you with sudden unease.  You don’t blame him.   

“We’re going to go in there while no one is around?  We might die.  We’re probably going to die.  This is such a bad idea.”  

“Relax, I’ve flown all alone before.”  

“Were you allowed to?”

“Probably not.”  

He doesn’t look reassured, but you let him freak out on his own to instead orchestrate the control panel.  You pretend that you are confused by its various settings but it’s really just to tease him; you’ve actually done this so many times.  

You dim the lights and that freaks him out too.  

“You are putting so much stuff up against us, we are never going to survive this.”  

“It’ll be romantic!”  

He starts rambling darkly about the pick of romance over survival, but you also see him admiring the tunnel as you set it all up.  

By the time you’re ready to step in there with him, he’s positively beaming, despite his nervous banter.  

You let him know quite teasingly that usually you should have put him through a class to explain flying positions, when you tell him you’ll just teach him on the spot he doesn’t look less worried.  

Flying is easy for you by now.  So is holding his hands.  So when you lead him in, his hands clutched in yours, it all comes as naturally as breathing.  You half regret letting him keep his shades on, but you don’t because it’s part of who he is and you don’t want to strip anything away from him.  

You try to ask him if he’s alright, but the rush of the wind doesn’t carry it.  The only contact between you are your hands, and finally he’s without gravity, but you know his hold on you won’t falter either.  The rush of wind feels all the more strong with the muted lights, the darkness that was only compensated by the pale blue lights signaling the floor of the tunnel.  You feel as if you are floating up into the sky, and even though it’s always a bit like that, it’s much more pronounced now.  There is nothing but David.  

Your helmet knocks against his when you tug him a bit closer to you.  You press your lips to his as you’d been planning.  And something inside of you rumbles with the satisfaction of having touched him in the most personal of territories.  It’s just a kiss.  But it’s the obsession you’d fed to get him to be without gravity, to be able to liberate himself as he’d dreamed for so long.  It was giving him that and making sure to infiltrate yourself into that want he’d harbored.  It was kissing him when there was literally nothing but weightlessness.  

And it was distinctively understanding the pure love he put into interlacing his fingers with yours as he kissed the rush and power of the wind away simply by moving his lips to press against yours too.  


	15. Honest Planning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, last chapter!

 

The end of the week was fast approaching.  You couldn’t exactly find it in you to view it as overly dramatic.  Time moving so swiftly was definitely a good sign, or so you told yourself.  Time wasn’t dragging because you were more or less having the time of your life to begin with.  Besides, it’s not like a single week is an uncommon timeframe for your meetings.  

It brings an increasingly warm smile to your face to think of those days long past.  There was something about thinking of that kid with the skinny legs and the bright mind, and to glance sideways to see him there with his confident posture and enticing expressions.  It’s not that he’d changed.  He was fundamentally the same person.  However, it felt incredibly humbling to tell yourself that you’d witnessed his growth; no matter how fragmented this perception might have been.  

He was currently telling you about this stunt he’d pulled at his school, only in response to your high number of stories of successful pranks you’d maneuvered over the years.  You think he might be under the impression that what he was rambling about also qualified as a prank.  You can’t bring yourself to agree.  It’s probably the scientific jargon that’s thrown every which way, or the way he snorts instead of actually laughing in the pauses he took in his speech.  

You’re sort of otherwise occupied anyway.  With what?  You should say that you are preoccupied with getting the two of you to destination.  He’d asked you where was the absolute best place to photograph fallen slow, and you’d had to comply.  It had excited you beyond belief when he’d pulled out the very same camera from forever ago.  You’d fought down the urge to question him on just how he’d managed to preserve it.  You’d also fought with the similar urge to ask him about his fascination with snow; he’d brought it up too many times during his stay, and you’re positive his campus’ location could offer him some snow.  

You spend some time imagining him hopping around in snow storms, desperately photographing the sights.  Maybe he was originally from the South then?  You should definitely ask him, this should be vital information.  You don’t like pushing him for information though, so you just keep it to yourself.  

You’d decided you would drag him through the city’s heart to get to the destination you had in mind.  You’d noticed that, for someone who was somewhat or very much introverted, he did seem to light up when in busy streets.  Maybe it was his sense of observation, but maybe that too had to do with his upbringing.  You figure you’d sort of gotten used to the city life over the years, but you can also safely say you did not compare to his ease.  So really your mind should be set on leading him correctly.  

Instead, your mind is bugging on just how, yes, you were right and that, yes, he lit up like no other in this environment.  You try to flatter yourself by thinking it might have something to do with your presence, but mostly you concentrate on him.  How his facial features were redder with the colder weather, how his scarf hugged the line of his neck, how his thin wrists poked out of his jacket’s pockets.  Your right wrist keeps brushing against his left one too and your senses are flooded with the idea of holding his hand.  

And he would let you.  He’d let you hold his hand in the middle of the grocery store.  And many other places, but that one still felt quite impressive.  Definitely like a married couple.  And you’d probably kissed his lips a hundred ways already.  And you’d gotten him to laugh, to tear up, to raise his voice, to speak softly, to look you in the eye in the morning and smile at you as if you’d been the one thing he’d always been after.  You felt more like a couple than you probably had the right to.  But he did sleep in your bed and he did make sure to always be within reach from you, and...  You think you could probably ask him to be your boyfriend.  

He’d say yes.  You’re positive.  

Now he’s glancing your way, laughing squeakily at his own story.  You don’t even have to force your smile, but it is certainly not directed towards whatever geeky tale he had weaved.  You say that affectionately, of course.  Maybe you should ask him right now.  Because all you can really think about is holding his hand.  

Your steps slowly come to a stop and he grins at you almost coyly as he synchronizes himself perfectly to you.  You get the weird impression that he might automatically know where you’re going with this.  

“So, hey.”  

Incredibly eloquent.  Apparently eloquent enough for him to lean towards you and to match your almost hushed tone of voice.  

“Hey.”  

You exhale with the slow rush of adoration and of admiration.  If you secured him into your life, it might change everything, right?  How much better would it make everything?  How worthwhile will it all have been?  The answers to those are exhilarating.  So you don’t conjure them into thoughts.

A lot of things could have gone wrong.  A lot was even an understatement in some ways.  A lot, and quite a few things you could imagine vividly.  What does go wrong was not up there with those things.  It wasn’t anywhere.  It wasn’t even a thing.  

It’s a busy street.  But to you, it’s only just David and yourself.  

Still, you hear the shout of the name from outside of that connection.  You hear the shout of the name because it is a name you have trained yourself to hold in dear esteem, and later on, to completely abandon.  It’s a name that resonates with parts of you that feel dull and out of use.  It’s not your name, but your head snaps up as if it was.  David does the same.  

With a glance over his shoulder, just about the most graceful of ways to turn to the sound of your name.  Though the shout in this case had been “Strider!”  

It does not, in any way, begin to make sense when the person who’d disturbed your small reality, marched up to the person you’d deemed, for a long time now, your significant other.  It doesn’t either make sense to see David greeting him naturally.  

The hoodie of the stranger reads that he is definitely of the same university as David.  Their quick budding conversation and exchange of questions points to them being acquaintances.  You hear a few things.  You hear the newly arrived stranger ask the person you considered dearly to be your soul mate just why he wasn’t back home in Texas.  

Your throat starts tightening up.  

Even though David replies with kind words to your regard, presents you as his best friend, but that’s when bile definitely does rise to your mouth.  

It’s a quick greeting, or so it feels like.  When the guy does try to introduce himself, he meets your glare and that’s enough to help him scatter away.  Though the other involved party does meet your glare too.  He doesn’t look extremely used to the set of your jaw or the dark burn in your eyes.  You do believe though, that he’s seen it many times before upon first meeting you that one summer.  

You must have stood there like lunatics for much too long.  But no one bumps into you.  A few bump into David.  It takes you more than a couple of moments to realize that really he isn’t returning your dark gaze in the least, instead returning it with a very guilty look.  Which you’d been picking up on this whole week, but had never pinpointed quite like this.  

“David Strider,” you say it with all of the finality you’re feeling.  You have a hard time recognizing your voice.  You nod your head once, pressing your lips together in a thin line, showing the gravity of your understanding.  “Dave Strider.”  

You recognize your voice even less now that it’s plunging towards hysterics.  

It doesn’t help that there is full acceptance of the situation in the energy he’s displaying.  He knows exactly what you mean.  He is recognizing it as the truth.  

“You have to be shitting me.”  

You can’t even be bothered to still look at him.  You might be causing a scene now, you’re not sure, but your voice had dangerously spiked upwards.  You bring your hands up in pretext of pulling your hair.  The hair pulling is really just a tactic to calm down your tears of panic.  

“I’m sorry.”  

“Well that’s the thing though, Dave, you’re always just sorry.  That’s all you do.”  

The name still felt right as ever.  It instantly fills you with anger to know that some part of you had been constantly drumming on your nerves for you to clue this puzzle together.  Of course it was Dave.  Of course.  You’d always known, hadn’t you?  

“Words cannot convey how I’m feeling right now.”  And when you bring your hands back down, you catch that he’s put his slightly up, as if ready to defend himself.  

And he should.  You have ample reasons to beat him to a pulp.  He was simultaneously the last person you wanted to see...  And the person you wanted to see the most.  

“It’s ok, hey, I know how you’re feeling.”  His voice, however, is still lingering in the realms of what had been before the circumstance that simply should not have existed had in fact occurred.  

His voice was honey, his stance was careful.  And when he put his hand out to grab yours, the true opposite of his movement was the way you immediately jerked backwards.  

It’s a busy street.  But to you, it’s only just Dave and yourself.  It’s a busy street.  But oh how you wish it were only you.  How you wish he could let you escape from all of this.  

“How could you possibly know what I’m feeling?”  

It’s as if you’re feeling everything at once.  It’s how you should complete the sentence, but you don’t do it.  

Instead you acknowledge that he really does know what you’re feeling.  There’s no strong base of evidence, but...  You’re looking at him and he’s looking at you and you might as well recognize that you’re reflecting one another.  Questions burst from every which place of your mind.  When had he figured it out?  Had he always known?  He might have.  He’d always been decently more intelligent than you.  He might have known all along.

But his face speaks of having worked together that you were at the same time, the last person he wanted, as well as the very first.  

It doesn’t seem that farfetched that he’d fallen for you at that last camp now.  He must have known by then.  

Your worst fears are a breath away from your lips.  So you march off.  You turn back towards where you’d come from.  You needed to be home.  You needed a shower.  Or you needed to play.  Or you needed to smash something to pieces.  

The term emotional torture has never rung the way that it is ringing now.  

You could not have realized that your pace was excessively high without the familiar pitter-patter of Dave’s feet.  The word ‘familiar’ hurts you in ways you regret understanding.  

You can imagine him dodging and weaving through the crowd to keep up with you.  Thinking of him in the same way you always had hurts as well.  

“You could have told me,” you state boldly, boldly enough that the wind will carry it to him despite your positioning.  

He could have told you.  Because he certainly knew you.  He certainly knew your chumhandle, your full name, your hometown.  He’d known.  

It sinks in in the sort of steady way that has ways of awakening all of your emotional awareness at once.  It sinks in that the moment you’d given a shred of yourself, must have been when he’d understood, and when he’d also fled.  Not only from that building you both slept in every summer, but from your life back at home.  He’d run, and when he’d come back, he’d made extra sure that you wouldn’t be able to recognize him.  

The walk home is a lot shorter than expected.  The only words you speak to him are when you reach the top floor.  And by then, you’ve started to put every clue together and lamenting how idiotic you’d been to have missed the big picture.  

You tell him, simply: “You should have told me.”  

And when you look at him, it’s with a genuine sort of distress you know can’t leave him feeling innocent.  

He’d really messed up this time.  

But this was Dave.

And the revelation was putting you completely beside yourself.  

 

 

\------------------

 

 

The apartment is eerily calm.  

The place was stunning, of course.  You had a hard time describing John’s sense of décor, but it was something that incorporated classiness as well as the definite contemporary vibe.  Like John had to be just about the coolest person of his day and age, and that his home just had to showcase that perfectly as well.  

Of course, you’d always deemed that your own home aesthetics were strong.  However, after nearly a week here, you’ve come to feel slightly ashamed of your own personal sense of fashion.  You might be the sort of person who felt a deep sort of affection for belongings that called to your interests, but maybe your shelves were stacked just a bit too high.  There was something pure in his home.  

As there was something pure in his smile.  And the way he kissed you.  Just about everything related to him was basking in these soft nuances of things that were just a little ahead of you.  You’d had no idea who he would have shaped up to be when you had made the grand exit out of his life.  The realization that who he had become was someone so full of life and of kindness was more than reassuring.  

You remember him, angry and frustrated and a little lost, you’d bet.  You see him this week and he’s...  Appreciative and intently listening and caring.  That was until an hour or so ago.  

An hour or so ago, you’d seen him exactly as you’d seen him on the very first day, when you were thirteen years old.  It was the same, but it was different under the circumstance.  A man now, who had you more or less wrapped around his finger, and who’d literally been seething at you.  Of course, you feel absolutely trapped.  

He’s escalated back up to how furious he’d been with you a long time ago.  You’re dependent of him right now though.  You sit rigidly on his sofa, the one shaped in an ‘L’, but you are sitting at the very edge, ready to bolt, ready to run for your life.  You think you actually might.

You consider sleeping at the airport.  That’s a thing that people do...  

At the same time, you don’t really want to leave things the way they are right now.

It’s sort of tricky to make a move though.  You’re stuck here, staring at the dark and flat television screen.  You don’t really dare to turn the thing on, besides it’s not like you could concentrate on the images whatsoever.  

When you’d arrived, he’d slammed as many doors as possible, and then had settled for taking a shower that was just a little too long.  You’re also betting that it was a little too warm, because the steam that had billowed out of there when he’d exited the bathroom was impressive, and the red flush of his flesh was almost worrisome.  

He’d gotten into pajamas right away, and that had reassured you at least a little bit.  You were almost thinking that he might just be making himself comfortable so that he could address you properly and patch things up.  

Instead, he slammed more doors.  And you’d remained stock-still on the couch.  

Eventually, he’d gotten around to preparing supper, but hadn’t requested your help.  Every night before had been spent fighting over kitchen space and stealing kisses in between different steps of the recipe.  Needless to say, you didn’t quite exactly feel welcomed to enter the kitchen.  So you didn’t.  

You guess you’d assumed he was only going to serve himself.  However, he’d set a plate down onto the coffee table, and had retreated to the bedroom with his own plate.

You removed your shades before trying to eat.  In that moment, you absolutely hated what they stood for, that vast part of your identity you’d poured into them felt artificial and repulsive.  You really had messed up this time.  You could have prevented this, you really could have.  In a million different ways.

You ate with one fist pressed to your right eye.  You felt like shit.  To the point where the tears just weren’t coming.  You could face the fact that you weren’t deserving of being the one in tears.  He’d said it pretty plainly.  You weren’t able to own up to yourself, you were only an apologetic mess.  

Still, the food felt completely wrong in your gut and you felt overwhelmingly bad that he’d prepared some for you.  Eating felt more like a punishment than it did a reward.  

So you end the day laying on your side, an arm firmly wrapped over your stomach as you fought with digestion.  

Of course, you understood that you’d be sleeping here...  That is of course if he didn’t kick down his bedroom door and corner you with a shotgun.  You had a fair idea where you could locate sheets and stuff.  The thought of getting up though was extremely unpleasant.  

It also dawned to you that you couldn’t get changed seeing as your suitcase was trapped in John’s room, but then again if you didn’t have enough energy to hop off the couch, you didn’t have enough energy to wiggle out of your clothes.  

It wasn’t really that long before the sky completely sunk into nocturnal shades.  There was a sentiment filling you that was strangely familiar, but all the same came as a foreign presence.  Drifting to sleep still all dressed up, your tongue uncomfortable inside of your mouth knowing that you hadn’t brushed your teeth, and your stomach heavy with resentment and food you should not have wolfed down so miserably; it was possibly the first time you did not feel at home here.

You could not blame him.  How had you reacted again when you’d been faced with the same sort of revelation?  You had thrown him out of your life with minimal thought.  He hadn’t gone there yet, but if he were to, there was no way you could judge or preach.  

The thought of separation affected you more than it should, surely.  Because you’d gone through it with your head held high for years.  But...  

When your eyes open up once more, there is no way for you to tell what time it is.  Everything is dark, you are still fully clothed, your mouth now feels too wet, and the arm around your stomach has gone much too tight for comfort.  You had a fair shot at sitting up and looking to the kitchen for the microwave’s take on time.  

Though you do not once you start comprehending that it was the hand now on your shoulder that had woken you up.  

You were wrong in establishing that everything was dark, now that your eyes were locked with his, you could pick up on the light from the hallway, his bedroom light surely.  To you it seemed as if he hadn’t in fact slept.  He was in pajamas, as earlier, his glasses were still on though and his hair wasn’t quite as catastrophically messy as it was when he rolled out of bed.  

His voice was nothing but a rustle, a very deliberate but very faint call of your name.  “Dave.”  And you can feel it in the weight of it that it is no accident for once, it is the true recognition of who you were as a person and who you were to him.  

You would have said he’d spoken it to wake you up, but your eyes are truly locked.  Maybe that whisper was a reassurance he was handing to you.  You should say you’re sorry, but after what he’d said back outside, it felt deeply inappropriate.  

“The entire time we knew each other, at camp, I didn’t know either.”  You match his tone and your voice summersaults with great effort as to not die off miserably.  

His hand doesn’t move from your shoulder, and eventually, he brings his other hand up to cup your cheek.  You shut your eyes.  You’re still afraid of the impact, still afraid of what he will decide from what he’d just learned.  

He surprises you.  

“I should have just told you where I was going, that first year.  I should have told you, as your best friend, what was going on.”  He takes a deep breath, your hear it in the halt of his speech, so you open your eyes to watch his ribcage expand slowly.  “There were so many times I could have found out, or let you know, and I didn’t.”   

He surprises you by throwing in your face what just happened to be the exact same reasoning you had borrowed when you’d just found out as well.  He was surprising you by matching your actions and, more than ever, the fear gripped you that he would pull the same disappearance trick that you had.  

He didn’t really need to do anything as flashy as you had though.  He’d just tell you to go, and that would be that.  You’d leave because it had always been him who’d been gracing you with his presence, not the other way around.  Reality wasn’t those summers spent together, reality wasn’t him chasing after you and longing for your attention.  Reality was years of conversations in which you were well aware that he probably had dozens of better things to do, but was spoiling you with his friendship.  

You’d pushed the friendship away.  You knew, he knew, you both knew now.  And yet he wasn’t shoving you away, or turning the other way either; his presence was soft.  And his hands on you almost felt as if maybe they weren’t truly touching you, as if he needed a better show of your trust to finally make contact.  

There is definitely something that contracts in your stomach and you feel your expression shift into one of pain as to keep you from vocalizing it instead.  The arm you’d wrapped around your midsection tightened momentarily before relaxing entirely.  Maybe your aim right now shouldn’t be to keep things in.  

“There were just as many times I could have found out or let you know too, you know?  And like, I’ve gone over all of them so many times.” 

And as you speak, you recognize that no, he was not shoving you off or looking the other way, he was cornering you carefully, as if you were the one about to bolt.  

As if you were the one who wanted to leave, and he the one who wanted you there.  You finish what you were saying with an overwhelming sense of urgency, as if his attitude was in fact encouraging you to run away.  “And I mean, they’re all meaningless.  They mean nothing.” 

His hands shy away imperceptibly so as you drag yourself up to a sitting position.  You feel defeated, even though he’s crouched down at your level, even though his hands were careful and caring.  

You believed in what you were saying.  All of those what ifs were weightless, unrelated.    There could have been a thousand clues more.  It could have been flat out obvious.  It wouldn’t have changed that the boy who’d been around  for a week every year or so, was not the boy you’d grown up with.  

Merging them together had been painful, though not impossible.  But up to that defining moment, they simply were not one and the same.  

Surely, this is how he must feel about you too.  

“You were so mean.”   You say it with conviction, and it was supposed to lead up to a lot more, to sharp and illuminated conclusions.  But there was nothing more once you’d gotten that off your chest.  

Hearing yourself say it is different to what you’d expected.  

“You were just so mean,” you repeat as you try to angle your body away from him.  

Maybe he’d been right about you.  Because already, you feel the pressing need to dash out of this situation.  You had not wanted to admit it to yourself when you’d met him, that someone could so purely loathe you.  You certainly wouldn’t admit that it was your best friend who’d shown that dislike for you.  

You’ve finally cycled through everything in between though, and now it’s simply the cold bland truth.  

You see him kneel down and sit back on his heels.  Just like that he’s lower than the level you’re at, his hands are returned, moving nervously over his lap.  And you’re free to scoot back until you collide with the couch’s back, knees instinctively pulling in.  You look away, you don’t really want to be here anymore. 

“Yeah, I guess I was a bit of a mean kid.  C’mon though, you already knew that before we met.”  

His tone had dipped into casual and just as you were retreating in on yourself, you had the faint idea that he was mirroring it, backing up carefully to give you more space.  

Your arms cross atop your knees and your face disappears as you shake your head insistently.  John from online might have been a bit upfront, a bit careless at times, but he was kind.  He was the good guy who sometimes slipped up, but was still somehow wholly good.  

“Well, even if you didn’t see it, I was always at least a little bit mean with you.”  

His voice sounds like nothing more than a sigh.  You’d rather it be gone entirely.  You do not want this conversation and you do not want the words he’s offering you.  You could stand up for yourself, you could stop him plainly, but instead you shrink in on yourself, reveling in childishness.  

“Oh come on, Dave, I made you feel bad about yourself plenty, even when we were little kids.”  You haven’t stopped shaking your head, but your silence is accommodating enough that he can keep going.  “But I still loved you, you know?”

And it’s automatic, despite the situation, despite the feeling in your gut, despite that he was sitting on the floor of his dark living room; you lift your chin up enough to meet his eyes with yours, and you say it back.  You tell him, “I love you too, John.”  And it does distinctively feel good to have made that clear, even after your grandiose betrayal had been put into play.  

He smiles at you and you’re almost surprised at finding his expression to be so serene.  After all the door slamming, you could not have anticipated his next move to be this one.  

“Yeah, and I always wanted you to love me.”  The two of you do nothing but watch each other for a few moments, until he speaks up again.  “Say, where are your shades?”  

You tilt your chin to indicate behind him, on the coffee table, next to the empty plate.  

He gets up to go pick them up and when he sits back down, on the couch next to you instead, you almost let out a sob of relief.  You unknot yourself from the anxious and frightened position to instead sit normally next to John, weight leaning slightly against him.  

The shades are on his lap and he’s smiling at them with a fondness that makes you question why he hadn’t accepted them when you’d offered.  

The facade of his expression breaks cleanly, and he’s glancing at you with tired and bitter amusement.  “I was going to get you these for your thirteenth birthday.”  

It’s unexpected.  But it made you smile too, in a different way.  Maybe those shades had always been destined to be yours?  That was sort of cool.  A really cool story, in fact.  And when you try to line up the dates in your head, it makes sense and falls together quite nicely.  It doesn’t seem as if he’s appreciating it in the same way.  You’re left feeling as he has more bits and pieces to offer to that, and you’re not disappointed when he sighs heavily.  He leans his head back onto the couch and you watch his eyes disappear behind dark lashes and fragile looking eyelids.  

“Do you know how infuriating it was?  Some kid our age, some pretty boy with cool clothes and a cool camera strap had your shades.  It was the absolute worst.”  One of his hands moves to ruffle through his hair almost aggressively.  You could see it in the strain of his forearm that he was getting worked up.  But you weren’t moving, you were waiting, trying to let him speak whatever else was still left.  “When I didn’t win the auction, I don’t know, but...  It felt like I ruined some important step in our friendship?  Maybe that sounds dumb, but it was so disappointing that I couldn’t get my hands on them no matter what, even when they were right there in front of me.”  

You still say nothing, and he says one more thing.  “My entire life I’ve felt like I’ve been a poor friend to you, and these always felt like the catalyst to that.”  

“Well, give them to me now.”  

Your face is possibly reading as if you’d just spoken the most obvious of notions to some kid who wasn’t listening.  And really, out of all the feelings he’d poured at, that was probably not the proper response.  In fact, you had as steady a stream of feelings on all of these matters as he did; a lot more to say.  It’s all that you say.  

But he looks at you as if you were the most brilliant of all the beings he’d ever met.  For the first time, you consider that resolving that both his childhood friend and his childhood flame were one and the same person could possibly be an asset, and not the push to help him fall out of love with you.  Maybe, he loved you even more now.  

He takes a deep breath and picks up the shades.  “Dave.  Last December you turned twenty-two.  We talked on the day of your birthday, but I didn’t know that it was, because you were keeping it secret.”  

There’s no malice when he glances at you with a smirk, only playful amusement.  You’re increasingly surprised with how things are unfolding.  You’re increasingly feeling happier and safer.  

“It is my honor to bestow these shades upon you.”  He bows his head as he unfolds the arms of your aviators and sets them atop your head, as if it were a tiara.  You can’t miss his beaming smile.  “Let them stand for our friendship.  For the fact that all obstacles and crappy misunderstandings in the world cannot come in between us.”  

His joking stance had quickly taken a dip for true dedicated love.  So when he gathers your hands into his, you’ve already understood that the atmosphere had shifted.  

“Can you forgive me?”  

You think of telling him that you had already done so days, weeks, months ago.  You simply nod your head and keep your eyes lowered when you ask it for yourself too.  “Can you forgive me too?”  

It’s clear to you that you’re only able to ask him about it because you’ve understood that he wasn’t going to say no.  He was going to forgive you.  The safety you feel here and now is one you’d almost forgotten.  

“I’ll always forgive you, Dave.”  

You bite your lower lip in a futile effort to keep your emotions from completely ravaging your current state.  He brings a hand to the back of your head and kisses your forehead.  Of course, as soon as you can, you smash your lips together.  You do knock your forehead against his by accident, and it’s much the same to your first kiss, and you have to breathe out a quiet laugh before pouring those unmanageable emotions into the continuous kisses.  

When his hands get under your clothes, you don’t think of him getting to places you’d kept everyone else out from.  You don’t shake with the fear of him throwing you out after he’d gotten to your core.  Instead, you realize that you really do fully trust him.  

Finally, it does feel like you’ve gotten your best friend back.  

You don’t make it off the couch.  And when you wake up, the light had filtered in such a way that the entire apartment seemed alit.  When you pass a hand through your hair, you find that your shades were still gloriously resting atop your head.  Your stomach felt ok now, and somehow so did your mouth, and everything all at once felt a lot more than ok.  John is sleeping with his cheek pressed to your shoulder and both his right arm and leg thrown over you.  Your clothes are badly scattered at your feet and the floor.  You think, were it any other day, that would bother you and you’d have to pick them back up.  But instead you just rest a cheek to his hair and doze back off.  

 

 

 

 

\------------------

 

You try not to worry, you really do.  

You still worry.  Quite a bit.  

Dave is just not talking to you as much as you’d like him to.  He has a lot of studies, you know that.  And he likes to keep his plate full; that’s a thing you thought back on, all those parties you’d assumed your best friend had been going to were probably volunteer work and whatever else a person like the one you’d gotten to know could get up to as a teen.  He’s busy.  But the more space grows in between the times you can catch him online, and the more that one sinking feeling settles on your shoulders.  

You could recognize this behavior.  Were you really going to ignore the pattern?  But no, you weren’t going to smother him or anything.  Or should you?  

You just don’t know.  

It’s not like he should be abandoning you again.  He was basically your boyfriend.  Well, you think.  You’d never officially gone over it, but you’d been intimate and everything.  More than once!  And you’d spoken to him with everything that was on your heart, and he’d let you in, and...  It just did not make sense.  

Besides, everything was actually going great.  There was no true purpose to your unease here.  You’d even reunited with your old gang of friends after March.  After a lot of flirtatious convincing, Dave had finally reactivated his old pesterchum account and...  You swear that on that group chat, it was as if it was the happiest day of your lives.  For everyone.  

Dave was graduating too, and you were super proud.  And these days, everything you were composing came in quick and grandiose flashes of inspiration, and life was so very good.  But Dave didn’t come online all that much.  

You couldn’t help yourself from taking it as a flash from the past.  That was years ago though, and you’d both been hiding behind so much and things had been so complicated.  Things shouldn’t be so complicated now.  He wasn’t supposed to stray away from you like that.  What was going on?  

You hadn’t had anything like a real talk in what was about a week now.  He seemed pretty dismissive to the idea that he was busier than usual too.  This was not good for you.  This was on your mind way too much.  Maybe you should just try to be honest again, confront him with the reality that you were a bit fearful of him leaving you.  There was probably nothing attractive about you being overly clingy, but...  It was a lot better with Dave when you could express yourself freely and openly.  It was better for the both of you.  So you were going to do it.  

Maybe not tonight.  

Summer is upon you and your day of work had been heaps of fun, as usual.  You’d gotten some pretty young kids today, and those were always the funnest flyers.  But after a full day of that, you were tired, and with no longer frequently hopping into a tunnel of air, outside’s summer wrath wasn’t the best of companions.  

You were tired.  And after an entire day of upbeat attitude and enthusiastic leadership, you really had to cool it.  Not that any of that had been fake throughout the day, but you had to pull it from deep within when things were going poorly at home.  It was going pretty poorly at home.  You mean, there isn’t really that much to complain about.  Good job, good shelter, good food, good family, good friends, all of those wonderful things.

You just don’t want to be in that place again.  That place where you are waiting for someone to come back even when you aren’t holding the hope any longer.  Hopelessly waiting.  Waiting because there was nothing else to do, but knowing that the day would never arrive.  

Of course, the day had still arrived last time.  But after how many hundreds of days?  It had been more than one thousand days of wait, you think.  It had come.  But even if it had come, you had known that it wouldn’t.  Even though it was falsified knowledge, it was incredibly challenging knowledge to drag with you.  It hurt.  

You could not be that person again.  

So you head home, exhausted, and terrified at the idea of regressing into someone you’d never, ever asked to be.  

You come home to Dave sitting on the third to last step leading up to the intercom locking your building.  His shades are perched atop his head, and he smiles and waves at you immediately.  There’s a bag of his belongings on the second to last step of the staircase.  

There are many things that come to mind.  The two strongest are a bit superficial you suppose, but they are filled with true endearment.  

At first, it’s his eyes.  His eyes; that had taken so long for you to see them, glimpses in the dark, and half formed guesses were all you had to go on.  And there he was, his red eyed stare in broad daylight, directed at you so confidently, so trustingly.  

The second is his aura.  The same as the first day you had met.  And all is well.  

You try to downplay your smile as you skip up the first steps, it only breaks through once you shove at his shoulders.  

“You gigantic ass!  Do you know how much I was worrying?”  

You don’t have to explain much more you think because he’s already laughing with you.  Could have been that he’d been keeping quiet as to better surprise you.  Maybe or maybe not, but in any case it had worked.

“Come on, stand up so I can kiss you.”  Your hands move from their aggressing stance to a loving caress as they shift down his arms to take hold of his hands.  

Once he’s up, you stand with him, foreheads resting together, as if it were already tradition.  

“We need to talk,” he forms the words on your lips and you kiss his for every word of the sentence.  

“About?”  He kisses you once.  

“Future stuff.”  

So you kiss him twice, and you welcome him to actually get inside before you swoop him down into a more passionate kiss.  

It’s a lot more kissing once you’re inside than it is talking.  There’s not even time to ask for details on just why and how he was here and how amazing that it all was.  It was just the shape of his lips and the touch of his tongue, and the palms of his hands pressed into yours.  

He looks a lot less put together when you are through with him, but that’s more than alright, and the mess he’s in leaves him with a smile that is quite expressive for the person that he usually presented.  

You finally get around to that future talk, but it turns out that he isn’t quite sure what to bring up with it.  

So eventually you ask him: “What are your next steps in your NASA portfolio building?”  

And he shrugs a lot more than you would expect him to, makes it a smaller deal than he always had ever since his childhood.  

You push him until he tells you sincerely what it is on your mind.  What that is catches you off guard.  

“You know, I’ve always been chasing after that one feeling.  That everything could just stop weighing on me for a while?  I just hadn’t considered that I could feel that way simply by being around someone.”  

You never really answer to that, and he doesn’t force you to either.  You take it in as best as you can despite the rush of...  The rush of everything.  

You do spend hours though, talking about master’s and doctorates and things that really didn’t relate to your lifestyle at all.  But even after hours, plans were sorted out as: those where you could be together passed, and those where you couldn’t failed.

By the end of the night, you’ve made it clear that he was welcomed to stay as long as he wanted, despite never having given you warning of his visit, and he’d made short work of making himself right at home with you.  He’s throwing kicks at you while you both brush your teeth in front of your bathroom mirror when you bring his earlier statement up.  You tell him: 

“I got what you mean though, Dave.  Out of everything, being with you is the most physics defying thing for me too!”  

You snicker when he stammers, toothbrush still in his mouth.  But you do settle down when he kisses you before bed.  And maybe this really was being without gravity.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So; thank you so much for reading all the way through!!! And thank you for all the comments along the way. If you ever have any questions or anything you want to tell me, you can totally find me on tumblr.   
> Thank you again <3

**Author's Note:**

> I finally have time to post some fanfiction again!!!! I don't really know how frequent the updates will be, but I shall do my best! Thank you for reading <3 u__u


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